My Thoughts Exactly

Cool Beauty

2007-06-07T09:04:00.000-04:00

You know summer has arrived in Japan when:

people stop you to ask why you're wearing a shower-cap while further inspection reveals you've walked through another spider web
your retinas develop callouses from all the bugs you meet
you revert to ironing the back side of your shirts again
your new vocabulary is exclusively about frogs
pulling your pants down reveals an Amazon of evil in so many ways

I shall not elaborate on the last point.

Yes, 2007, the year we'd all been waiting for, is already halfway done. It seems like it was just yesterday that we had "stoves" in each classroom (kerosene heaters) , thus supplying us with our only recourse against winter's elements -- apart from cloaks made of pheasant hides caught during the fall hunt. Actually something should be said about these stoves, both a testament to Japanese adaptability and, yet, a screaming testament to the contrary. Somehow these industrial revolution hand-me-downs manage to coax fuel, electricity and fire to live together and, as the lone giver of heat (since most Japanese are actually dead), it serves as a kind of congregation area, an office ~~water~~ green tea cooler if you will. Sitting at my desk I could look straight at it at any time and see the principal standing there, solemnly toasting his ass, his face a staid bastion of concentration.

The principal plays an important role in any school, and in Japan the ascension to this seat is considered a bit of a coup for applicants- usually PICKMEPICKMEPICKME vice principal types. There is a test (there is ALWAYS a test) involved in selection, as well as the dreaded mile run. Principals must be fit for many duties at school, including (I am not making this up) weed wacking, having coffee brought to you, and smoking in your office as if your death depended on it. I am glad to say mine excels at all three.

Ever since we received new teachers at both schools, the format of planning for and teaching English classes has similarly changed, granting me an inadvisable amount of input. No longer does the old nod and grunt trick float me through planning sessions, as it had in the past.

Teacher: What should we do?
Nicky: furrows brow, bobs head
Teacher: Ok, so, after song, children will make human pyramids.
Nicky: mmmmmmmmmm.
Teacher: Do you understand?? After pyramid, you swallow hamster, OK?
Nicky: I see. nods
Teacher: Good, see you tomorrow.
Nicky: Hamster? I heard hamster. Wai--NOT AGAIN

Thus, when I was asked recently for a game idea I actually said something. "Let's play that one game, but add ROCK SCISSORS PAPER," I said, throwing my hands in the air as if I'd just created the universe and sought props.

For here in Japan, games whose outcomes are non-dependent on skill instantly inject fun into otherwise un-fun subjects. At a funeral and need to smile? Fuckin rock scissors paper someone, because there will be a taker. I have a 3rd grader who won't participate in English but if our eyes meet, he'll crack a small smile, shake his fist and suddenly I'm caught up in rock scissors paper WHILE TEACHING. But it is important to first consider and estimate your opponent before deploying your weapon, for you will discover the battle is won long before the count of 3. Then, which weapon shall it be?

Rock Rock, the very thing we build our homes on, the stuff of cosmos. Nothing is more reliable than a rock of 4 billion summers. It's raw inertia enables it to dispatch most enemies with a single, crushing blow but if there is anything the classics have taught us, even the mightiest bear fatal flaws. Be wary of Paper, whose flexible fibers will quickly cover and disable your rock.

Scissors Scissors: the most well rounded of the implements, yet also the sharpest. These no-nonsense steel blades fear only three things: God, Rock, and Superman. Strong enough to pierce through the armor of most enemies, Scissors usually does the trick, but watch out for Rock's tough outer layering and considerable weight.

Paper Paper, whose skin carries the word of many Gods, will fell your foes with a wrap-and-choke technique learned from the Burmese Python of lore. Almost as aged as Rock, Paper derives from the majestic sequoia, and as such it is vaulted into respectability. Be not fooled by the parchment's modest dimensions. As Rock will attest, you must move swiftly or Paper will have you. Heed the two pronged attack of Scissors, whose razor edges have never lost a match to Paper.

Finally, I got a haircut recently. My good natured, 50-year old female coworker walked in the staffroom, took a look at me, and delivered the best compliment I will ever receive on a haircut.

"Cool...beauty?"

That's right, bitches. Cool Beauty's creepin while you sleepin.

April Showers

2007-04-20T10:24:00.000-04:00

Its ok. You can come out of the attic now.

As we all continue struggling to find meaning in the last ~~bloodthirsty warning~~ post, I've given myself enough material to segue into the present blog - DESPITE wasting all my time getting sucked into overhyped digg links (BEST JUPITER PICTCHUR YOUR EVER GONNA SEE!!!(link)) and sobbing silently into my hands at the stupidity of YouTube commenters.

So, it is and has been a month of profound change here in Japan. It is during this month that the Japanese enjoy a picnic of beer, washed down with beer, under the venerable sakura tree, whose evanescent blossoms symbolize everything from the swift passing of life to the swift passing of beer under trees.*

For teachers and other civil servants, April brings great relief or great anxiety, depending upon whether or not you have been selected to transfer. It is said that these transfers help prevent corruption and serve to make the most well trained employee, but in the case of teachers, whose social lives are already suffocated by work, such inarguable change is one reason for the tearful sayonara parties.

As a result, I'm now sitting next to a stinkin PEN HORDER at one school and a Voluntarily Bald at the other!! Neither needs further discussion, although we are curious about Voluntarily B. Furthermore, due to retirement, we received a new, rookie principal at my smaller, family-like school, and the transplant was not unlike a stepfather meeting his new kids for the first time.

I was asked to do a self-introduction when we met, and it was ok until I freaked and screamed "YOU'RE NOT MY FATHER!!!" My voice a blood-curdling 170 decibles, tears spraying from my eyes, I stormed away amid complete silence (they were probably impressed) to my happy spot in the music room, where I played tamborine until I couldn't play anymore.

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*there are still some petals hanging outside, so if you would like to join me in appreciating the bittersweet nature of life, aided with beer, please contact.

Stand Down

2007-04-15T10:35:00.000-04:00

I have allowed you to ride my bus, both to and fro, but the time has come to set you straight, ass.

Our non verbal agreement stated that your territory was the rear of the bus and that NR7000's territory included the front, the women, shit, even the old ass bus driver.

U fucked up.

I noticed you creepin closer lately. It came to a head when one of mah old ladies gave you candy too. Unacceptable, dogg.

Come tomorrow you best be sittin atop tha engine in the back or you WILL get stuck with a pencil.

After that, you cold, knawmean.

NR7000 out

2006, In Review!

2007-01-15T11:27:00.000-05:00

2006 was a year of many firsts for me.

In a feat of procrastination that would make the Second Coming of Jesus green with envy, I've managed to bottle up many of the zany, "hahah ja[pan!1" moments inside- all the while coating them with the foods that are thrust in front of me, which are all not unlike chum, but with more reproductive content.

Continuing the theme of "food" I've eaten, a neighboring ALT and her husb hosted sushi night at their apartment, whereby we made our own sushi but then had to eat it. My level of proficiency in food preparation falls somewhere between enema and roadkill, and, as we try to figure out what that meant, suffice to say, my sushi roll was shit. In fact, I found myself with a little bit of sushi roll envy after noticing the size and girth of the other, successful roles, but to my surprise, my own tasted quite good.

Wiping off the innuendo dripping from the last sentence, I turn to my ongoing discovery and continuing love of everyday electronics in Japan©. Entering a kitchen is like stepping into a walk-in Pandora's Box of Convenience (haha. box.). Many items you'll find at the grocery store are modified such that you may take it home, hastily pour hot water on it, and edit your will before ingesting. One example of such takes advantage of the long-standing cultural norm of drinking tea and coffee periodically throughout the day, as required by law. Recently I plucked off the shelf a box of instant beverage (it was 'mocha' flavored) and raced home to try it out. In a word, it was unbearable. However, given that I am in Japan, and there's even a word to describe enduring hardship, I shut my eyes, pinched my nose, held the cup up high and in one swift motion I tossed it in the sink like it was Satan's chalice.

Cuz homey don't drink that.

I also had my first encounter with the Japanese equivalent of anti-perspirant, which I like to call anti-deoderant. My faithful stick of Aqua Reef ran out just 16 days before I was set to return to America for the sole purpose of restocking. My desperate search for a replacement landed me in, of all places, the 100 yen shop.

The little tin squirt bottle I bought turned out to be literally that – a squirt bottle. It smelt of silly putty and had the consistency of tuna semen. I absolutely had to find something else, and I did, at, of course, the home supply store. This was at least pressurized, and came with the added bonus of raver quality euphoria directly on contact.

Haircuts in Japan are also a completely terrifying experience. This is due to a number of factors: the barber is actually dead, the book of samples includes fruit, you request "cut my head, swine" in broken Japanese etc etc. Mine was somewhat of an exciting do-not-choose your own adventure, as midway through, the barber's wife took over and I thought I'd stumbled into some sort of haircut and massaji joint. The funny thing was, for 3500 yen, you'd be surprised what I was prepared to let happen. What actually occurred included a hot wax straight blade shave that was pleasingly warm and carefully removed. However, like all things, it was uniquely Japanese.

They shaved my forehead.

The Bag King

2007-03-15T07:05:00.000-04:00

Man is not the sum of what he has but the totality of
what he does not yet have, of what he might have.

Jean-Paul Sartre

Plastic bags are a fixture of daily life and rarely is a purchase complete where you would not receive one, such as a drink from the convenience store, screwdriver from home center, baby from black market etc etc.

Working my way up the bag hierarchy, I convinced myself that I could go no further. That I had reached the top. That I'd have to buy products so big they require special delivery, such as women*.

I was to learn that day last week what my sum was not; what my totality might be.

Check out that great big fucking bag, dude!!! Just iMAGine my excitement when the cashier scooped everything together and proceeded to place them in a bag that was no smaller than Shaquille O'Neal. "Its so big I could sit in it," I thought, giggling like Sloth, saliva bungee jumping off my face.

And once home, I promptly sat in the bag. You can do many things inside this bag: read a magazine, create a cocoon of immediate warmth, cry yourself to sleep. With carefully cut holes in the bottom, it could easily accommodate two during swim season at Suma Beach, although I am thinking of stuffing it and mounting it on the wall.

*i can't make this joke funny, i've tried

Baby, your scent is intoxicating.

2007-03-15T07:13:00.000-04:00

I had not seen you since you ran out on me that day, December 9th.

I had to move on. I had to. I found another and I tried to hold her in my arms like I did you. Baby, I tried.

Her touch was different, cold. I always had to press the right button with her, you know? It wasn't right, baby girl, and I perspired every day just worrying about it.

Damn.

Then came Christmas, and there you were, like a ray of sunlight cutting through my dark and stormy cloud. I knew I had to have you and to hold you in my arms again.

Girl, I promise we will freak in the bathroom before I leave for work every day. Every single day.

I've missed you, Old Spice "Aqua Reef" Deoderant/Anti-Perspirant.

xoxo,
Nicky

Bottoms Up

2006-07-30T13:23:00.000-04:00

Like the battered hand of Shredder reaching up from beneath the rubble, I attempt to return to the world of blogging after what has been an eternity of online time, or about a month. And after carefully examining the link between what I've said on my blog and what I actually do thereafter, I can state without a doubt that I have the teeth-bearing determination and impenatrable willpower of our friend Carol Yager.

"What?" you ask, as you scratch your head and fart a little. Well let me tell you. A lot has happened -- I mean a fucking lot -- since the last update, and I blame this for my conspicuous but healthy absence from cyberspace. Since moving out of my apartment on the southside, I stayed at a furnished flat for a brief period of 3 and a half weeks near downtown (EDITED). This armed me with some knee-slapping stories for the bar, and it was fun to be able to tell them, but as soon as I reported my findings to the group, my time there was seemingly over and I had to move out.

With the knowledge that I had a job lined up in Japan for the end of November, I allowed the 'P' word to creep in and rule my life with an iron fist. I do of course refer to procrastination here, and so every time I thought "do something productive, like roll yourself over at least," the idea was swiftly struck down by the fat little devil on my shoulder seductively whispering "you have 4 months!!" Thus, my well meaning goals of reading, jogging and studying Japanese were very quickly run into the ground in place of less worthy activities, such as nothing. And then. And then!

And then on July 13th, I received a call at work from the Japanese consulate in Chicago informing me that I had been upgraded into the JET Program. You might recall my bright eyed post LAST DECEMBER talking about the application I'd just sent in, and wondering if I'd be sent off to a mountain village that evolution forgot whose chief wore a necklace of human skulls.

Finally, I'm in.

So on August 22nd I will be on an airplane for 13 hours, headed for a year of exciting new experiences in Japan; not the least of which includes having children ram their fingers up my arse (I'll explain more as it happens). These last 2 weeks have been a mad dash to get the proper paperwork in order, allowing me very little time to devote to telling everyone about those dildos, and time is just slipping through my fingers. One benefit to leaving so soon, however, is that I get to live for free at my parents' house. For the first time in 5 years.

You know you're living at your parents' house again when:
- you wake up grabbing for a gun you don't have, then realize "oh, I'm in the basement"
- you flip everything on just for the hell of it
- snacks turn into binges of biblical proportion
- you reach a new area code just by entering the garage

Happy time. But every ying has its yang, and I must say goodbye to the old as I welcome the new here very soon. I'm talking about my job at the CSR, the workplace everyone loves to hate*, one which I'll have an undeniable fondness for when I look back. Recently the heat wave has been so intense that we've kept the air inside the office at a cool 18 Kelvin, rendering it not unlike a morgue, but still with less soul. As distracted as I have been the last two weeks with the news of making JET, I've found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the tasks handed to me- especially as they're handed to me. Perhaps I'm just subconsciously prepping myeslf for a world of confusion in Japan, but I often find myself nodding and grunting in faux understanding of what I'm told to do.

HER: You wanna hit 'print properties' and then adjust the margins to point 5 on each side.
ME: Yeah.
HER: After that I need you to check and make sure the data all looks right-- the questions imported properly, there arent any wiggy values, that kind of thing.
ME[staring intently, blankly at her comptuer screen]: ookayyyy.

After this I march off, clutching my chickenscratch notes and nodding my head, only to realize after I've reached the safety of my desk that I have no idea what the feck I'm doing.

Bottoms up, Japan.

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*Or maybe just me

D is for Dumbass

2006-11-13T09:49:00.000-05:00

Today I assisted with my second "English Salon" - a mishmash of minute-English, jammed down the throats of confused, smiling obaasans. We know them as your everyday Old Japanese Lady.

The moment you've knelt down to the ground, your knees explode from their shackles of skin and blood no longer reaches your feet, instead pooling in your ass, and you begin to resemble a horribly dazed baboon WANTING SOME. Disregarding this mounting collection of silent frenzy, you do your best to entertain the ladies with a series of example dialogues, round robin signature exchange, and glassy eyed smiling fueled only by your coming paycheck, which will ensure that someday you will own a Wii.

You flatter the flock of spring chickens with estimations of age being in excess of four decades short, then begin to notice something. That something is your inner conflict furrowing its brow as you question the right and wrong behind coveting the gold in their mouths.

"I am Johnny Depp," you calmly say to yourself with a frightening kind of self-assurance known only to people in straight jackets. "THAR B GOLD IN THEM CAVES," you begin to shout, as the room falls silent.

And suddenly, your lesson has ended and you are free to eat your lunch in the staffroom.

Being the Squiremaster Supreme Leader69 of english at school, I sometimes lose sight of the real difficulty others are having with learning words and phrases. Wearing the cloak of Culture Shock, my lessons are now done at a helpful volume of triple forte, supplemented by a healthy dusting of froth and spittle.

I've had many language follies of my own since arriving in Japan, though. Two come to mind. My friend Anthony quoted a colleague of his, who said that "the Japanese language is always changing" -- meaning that rules are always being bent, and thus the language evolves. I rely heavily on my dictionary from high school, but sometimes it fucks me over. I thumbed to a page looking for a word to describe the wheelchair-bound boy's condition to his teacher, and I ended up noting that it was in fact "hilarious".

Another teacher wanted clarification on the phrase, "Time is running out". I drew an egg timer diagram and wrote the phrase both in english and Japanese. In walked the oldest teacher in the school, and teacher A thoughtfully handed the sheet to her, saying I had made it.

Go on. You can imagine the look I got.

some culture shock

2006-10-30T05:24:00.000-05:00

I've been absent from my picture album and blogs lately, but I blame Culture Shock.

Culture Shock is the one-armed man. Culture Shock is the Oracle. Culture Shock is a great excuse. Following the highs associated with being a new JET in the first few months comes, according to a real graph, a swift decline in your ability not to kill things. It seems that the sports festival, which was held at the end of September, marked for all JETs the end of the honeymoon period full of red carpet and pig intestines and the beginning of just pig intestines.

The month of October has passed surprisingly quick, but without much of note. The children that appeared in my early pics have not morphed into other, cute children, and my surroundings have lost the luster of their summer color and everything else seems to converge on grey. It is fully dark by 5:30pm and shortly after that, the townsfolk recede into their anti-death chambers for the night, leaving barren roads to be kept company by the soft, flashing lights of hidden establishments.

Anyway. The past week has been one of strange ailments and stranger cures. I woke up consecutive mornings with my first taste of vertigo and other symptoms of an ear infection, so I took my temperature at school. My supervisor handed me the thermometer, I confidently plunked it under my tongue, and I assumed Temperature Reading Posture. Seconds later, I looked up, hearing him shout "No, no!"

He was pointing to his armpit.

And thus I visited the doctor. This was something I tried to avoid, because it is well known in JET circles that Japanese "doctors" are in fact hand-me-down robots from the universities, dressed in green. I was shown to the bathroom and given a paper cup. I was fairly certain what they wanted from me, but having made the fatal error of absolutely pissing to my heart's content 15 minutes before, I actually considered something far more repulsive.

Sadly, I didn't go that route and you'll just have to use your imagination because I aint sayin it. I eventually received my medicine and biked home, realizing soon thereafter that I couldn't read the labels. I had been prescribed FOUR different kinds of pills, for god knows what, and during interpretation my supervisor pointed to his wrists and stomach - areas that my meds would address. Thanks, J1000.

ALT Misses Bus, Boards Wrong One; Explanation Yields Mockery

2006-10-05T11:40:00.000-04:00

Ono City- 24 year old Nicholas Roberts, first year ALT in Hyogo Prefecture (Japan), recently missed his bus to school and boarded an incorrect one in an attempt to rectify the situation, it was learned yesterday.

Following the advice of coworkers, Roberts modified his morning routine to include a breakfast of riceballs - to be eaten during his commute on the city bus.

"**** ***** riceball," he was quoted saying early Tuesday morning.

Due to a malfunction which Roberts blames on seaweed, rice spilled "all over the place" and time was lost. Enough time, in fact, that he abandoned protocol and attempted to board his bus at a different stop.

"This bus came when I thought my real bus would arrive," Roberts explained, "and they're the same color. So fuck yall."

Roberts said he knew something wasn't right when, after triumphantly stepping aboard said bus, he sat in his own seat amid a sea of sleeping businessmen; normally there were three women. Some time later, Roberts exited the bus and sheepishly boarded the regular chariot not far behind.

When explaining the story to a busmate who was absent the following morning, she voluntarily translated to the rest of the bus -- reportedly much to the chagrin of Roberts. Laughter erupted from the women followed by a decrescendo of psychobabble.

sports day prep

2006-09-19T05:34:00.000-04:00

Preparations for the school sports festival continue - undeterred by such things as classroom learning - and my circus quality cocaine-like pigment is finally starting to change due to this, so one good thing will come of it.

Actually there probably is an underlying lesson to be learned for the kids. Its laying on the ground, bleeding, gasping for air beneath the forced cheering competitions for which there is no apparent reason to be cheering, the group dance numbers that border on erotic and of course the 6 tiered human pyramids for which the organizers must have missed the warning label that said, "DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, OR ANYWHERE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT." One does feel for the poor bastards on the bottom, whose little bodies shake precariously under the immense weight of their teachers' expectations as well as the fat kid whose knee has just turned your kidney into a diamond.

They say that Japan only has a Self Defense Army, incapable of reproducing the horrors of Tojo's destiny-drunk vision, but I reckon this is untrue. If I am able to post exclusive video of our sports day, you will see that underneath the innocuous school uniform lies a soldier, an emotionally dead inside shadow of a child programmed to march on command and perform group acrobatics with neither fear nor grace.

Confusing things further, I've been commissioned to use a Las Vegas announcer's voice to announce the start of the festival. File all of this under O, for Only In Japan.

first day

2006-09-07T07:41:00.000-04:00

after an exhausting first day of english lessons, class shadowing, and a new-ono-jets sit down chat with the mayor, i'm ready to hit the hay - and its only 8pm! let me tell you how it went.

after arriving at 8:35am, i was shadowing a first grade class within 15 minutes. they call what i do in these classes "guidance," as its not english class, so i'm to walk around and be Foreign. its great, actually, because i'm not really responsible for the kids, nor do i do much work in that mode, and i basically get to play with them. i'm a huge curiosity to them so at times throughout the class, a child will turn in their seat just to look at me. most of their reactions have been positive and middle fingers were at a minimum.

they call me either nikku-sensei or robaato-sensei and in my speech to the entire school last friday on opening day ceremonies, i told them to say hello if they saw me in the hallways. very much to my surprise and delight, they're actually doing that, including even many of the children from grades which i haven't visited (3-6). the first graders are predictably "adorable" and while their attention spans are much shorter than they are, they follow a standard practice when called upon to answer a question: stand up, push chair in, recite answer with arms at side and with formal sentence ending word, "dessu," returning quietly to seat. its kind of amazing to me as one who grew up in the american system of cash bribes and such.

after class ended, it was time for lunch. the kids ran like rabid animals into the lunchroom, right? wrong! the lunchroom IS your classroom and the formaldehyde-marinated lunchladies are in the form of your classmates in little white costumes like this. even that picture doesn't do justice to the first graders wearing their lunch garb, carrying the food, serving it, and even delivering it to each other's desks. they're like big marshmallows with brown pretzels sticking out the bottom. anyway, after lunch was "cleaning time" -- another japanese practice of having the kids clean the school owing to zero custodial staff. all over i witnessed kids cleaning the floors, wiping desks clean, vacuuming.

being the z-list celebrity i am (they've said i'm A) like brad pitt, B) like tom cruise, and C) like a moviestar), after class the teacher had the students escort me downstairs to the staffroom. i knew where it was but maybe they were on their way out to recess or something, anyway, about 15 of them hung off my arms and pushed me along by my waist and belt. "nikku sensei!! this way!" i was kind of embarrassed when i arrived at the staffroom and met the eyes of teachers who had smirks across their faces. haha.

after school, the new ono jets (6 of us) met with the town mayor to give introductions and talk a little bit about our first impressions and what we'd like to accomplish. it sounds a lot more formal than it ended up being. having been prompted before he arrived to be formal in our self-introductions, i naturally sought to deviate from the plan and add some humor, saying i SWAM all the way from america (in japanese). this received only a guffaw from the PR guy standing silently behind the mayor but i'm unsure if anyone, including PR guy, understood that my usage of swim was intentional and, more importantly, meant to be funny. argh!!

that's all for now. i might have to play trumpet for the kids during my first day at my other school tomorrow, and normally i would be terrified of this kind of thing but since i can do no wrong, we'll just see what happens and report on the damage here later.

nr7k OUT

eye candy

2006-08-31T02:39:00.000-04:00

short update. i realized last night that in a span of the last 24 hours i had:

A) told one female jet that i had no testicles, and
B) told another female jet she was eating monkey brain (which yielded no laughter, sadly)

anyway, as expected, i'm still adjusting to Life In Japan. i will never grasp the cm/km conversion, nor volume in milliliters, nor, yet, how big a room is by how many tatami mats you can fit on the floor, and on top of that every time i ride my bike i'm taking an exciting gamble with death. every update could be my last.

as i was the final JET to arrive in ono city i missed the customary welcome parties that the others have enjoyed. this means for better or worse i've missed the standard japanese bonding practice of vomiting on your coworkers in a spectacular, campbell's chunky soup kind of way. if and when a party is held in my honor, i'll likely have to display my prowess at the dreaded chopstick and, for those who no habla espanol, i cannot use chopsticks. although my skills have improved a bit, i continue to struggle to grab food smaller than shaquille o'neal.

another thing that takes getting used to is the tear jerking price of ice cream. countries have different bases to their currency; america has the gold standard, and japan - you would have to assume - has the ice cream standard. i bought something called "Suupaa-Cappu," or Super Cup, about the size of a side a'mash'taters at KFC, for FOUR DOLLARS*. however, japan's sweets industry does almost redeem itself with its outstanding presentation and quality. at the supermarket today i spotted a store called "Dessert Island," a name more clever than i'm willing to give them credit for.

for those of you wondering what my apartment looks like, i was able to snap some shots and put them up on webshots. please check my webshots set for the entirety of my "Japan Pics," and please check my flickr set for my favorites. feel free to let me know if you think anything should be on the flickr set.

__________________________________________
* to its credit it was delicious and made me very happy

ono

2006-08-28T07:55:00.000-04:00

i'm settled now in ono-city and life here is good. the heat, though, is oppressive and the humidity uncompromising. they say this will last　through september and into october before we get much relief.

got into ono on friday, where i was taken directly to the board of　education and into a meeting with the SUPERINTENDENT and one of his　Main Men, a guy who stared a hole through me with crossed arms the　entire time. i completely forgot to use polite language forms when　speaking, so i think at one point i commanded the superintendent to　repeat what he said. no worries, though, because i can always play　the "stupid foreigner" card.

after meeting them i was given a tour of my apartment, which by　japanese standards is very nice. by my standards, not paying rent is　also very nice. i have a little washing machine, a real box of chaos,　that had me guessing every step of the way at 6am when i　couldn't sleep. the toilet is separated from the rest of　the bathroom, in typical japanese fashion, and this caused unnecessary confusion already when i woke up and rushed into the shower last night.

my first night in town, most of the other jets (2 canadiens, 1 brit,　1 aussie) took me out to a little izakaya (pub) where we drank and　ate communally. in japan when you go out with a group, you order　millions of little dishes and everyone picks at them throughout the　night. nice group, them. 7 of the 9 JETs in town live in one apt　building, including myself, so its nice to have them nearby when i　need help in certain situations, such as when i went to shower and　realized i had neither soap nor towel.

last weekend i went with a couple of the girls into kobe for what was　advertised by the hyogo jet association as a party at a hip hop club　but turned out to be us, a few other jets and literally billions of japanese　homeboys and girls. this was supposed to last from 8pm till 5am,　and, sensing impending boredom, we took a few long walks outside throughout the night. this is always fun for me in big cities and kobe　was no exception. there's a different crowd there than in tokyo, a　looser, cooler crowd, and one which seems more up my alley.

employees in stores of any kind here in japan will always greet you, the customer, with a hearty "irasshaimase!!", something to the effect of "welcome!". you're not supposed to say anything in response- just go about your business and act like they're dead to you. this is hard for me because i've got a knee-jerk reaction to greet people back, so i'm constantly suppressing the urge to welcome them in their stores as i walk in.

i visited one of my two schools today and met some kids in an after school classroom but i'll save that for the next update. i'm using the community center's wifi in the meantime as i wait for A) my foreigner card to arrive, B) A), then getting a cell phone, and C) both A) and B), so i can get internet. as i write this, one of the many wrinkly faced turtles that are the aging night security has walked by AGAIN, armed with his flashlight and white gloves, so i think its time to pack it up. more to come.

Ch-ch-changes

2006-08-21T03:42:00.000-04:00

I hate change!!!1

"But change is good," someone says, from the Red Dragon Inn 24 chat room (circa 1996).

Yeah I know. Fine. But like David Bowie said, it aint easy. Today's been terribly sad for me as I met with and said goodbye to my dear friends and family. I'm leaving them. I'm leaving home. I'm leaving my fucking cats.

Oh fuck, I'm leaving Paddlefoot. And Mama. One of those two little furballs repeatedly slapped my face this morning with their paw, trying to wake me up. How can you not have love for that?

My neighbor, though I haven't ever met him, has been given one to two weeks to live. What a horrible way to die -- knowing that you won't wake up in a couple of weeks. I don't like to be reminded that this happens, and that things have an ending. Just like when I walked away from my desk and to my car in the parking lot last week at work, it came to an end. My job of almost 6 years. People I grew with, people that grew me up. People I probably won't ever see again.

Although relationships can stay the same, people come and go, and this is something that becomes increasingly and painfully apparent at this stage in my life. It suuuucks to say goodbye to your friends, your family, to girls you never had the brass to say I Like You and step into the revolving door of life, but I guess, though, that when you exit you'll find yourself in a good place- a different place. I've never liked the transitory nature of all things but if there was a redeeming feature about it, it would be that every ending is a new beginning.

I'm allowed to bring only 140 pounds of my life with me to Japan. How do you pack for that? Its not easy.

Anyway, I should return to that, and with some luck I'll return home in 4 months or so and will see all the faces that make me happy (including the ones with whiskers: you know who you are). I won't have internet for a few weeks so until then, this is my last post. If I can ever learn Dreamweaver I'll make my planned website, nr7000.com, on which I'll be able to streamline my thoughts and photos from across the pond to share in a sort of one-stop-shop for all things Nicky.

Later, peeps.

On The Event Horizon

2006-08-19T20:16:00.000-04:00

NR7000.com is coming soon.

Also coming soon: life in Japan.

Plastic Underwear

2006-08-11T00:53:00.000-04:00

Today I abandoned my recent habit of jogging after work for an equally healthy but infinitely more gratifying session of NAPPING. Waking up occasionally from the nap to the tune of every single light in the basement being flipped on by my siblings, I felt a little more refreshed, if groggy, and continued to amaze myself at my ability to somehow rotate my shirt backwards whilst sleeping.

Being that I had Jimmy John's for lunch this afternoon -- going against all natural instinct inside telling me to run far, far away, wetting myself for added defense -- I awoke with my stomach in a tizzy.

Blahpt. Squirt. Rrrrrrr. Blopt.

So casting common sense aside for a moment, actually many moments, I followed the attractive smells wafting down from the kitchen and proceeded to eat dinner until my teeth had eroded into smooth, tiny nubs. And so here I am. In pain.

Let's rewind back to this morning at work: sitting stoically at ready position with hand on mouse should an actual task came my way, gazing with baggy eyes and puffy skin into my 17-inch box of pain, I felt a burning sensation coming from two unmistakable places beneath my shirt. Yes, my nipples were on fire.

Haha, no -- nobody brought a super nintendo in the office. It was the lingering pain I felt yesterday while running the track. My god, one has enough things to complain about while running (such as running)- I don't need this too. Aside from breathing harder in an attempt to trick passersby into thinking I was moving faster than evolution, swiftly prompting the women to dial 911, I furtively tugged at my shirt on the uptakes to relieve the horrific pain that came with each purpose questioning step. I considered cutting pancake sized holes into my shirt but started to laugh, causing only more extremely cautious double-takes. Now that I think about it, I would fully endorse this measure for women with similar pain. Liberation!!!

So anyway. Time continues it's unstoppable path toward my departure date, now just 12 days away, and suffice to say I've run dry of all underwear shitting myself in glee. Kroger bags make serviceable subsitutes, I've found out. You just have to work the holes right. I also learned that I'll be teaching at two elementary schools and will have an apartment the size of, approximately, Elvis in his declining years. Did I mention that my rent will be paid for? At this moment I'd like to extend both my middle fingers in the direction of that effete Asian-American boogerhead who I just KNOW banished me to the bottom of the alternates list way back in February during interviews.

12 more days.

A Quick Note

2006-07-02T14:08:00.000-04:00

I really need to improve my once-a-month posting pace. Anyway, things have been busy as of late: I landed a job in Kobe, Japan teaching English to a client pool made of 45% office ladies.

Yeah.

So anyway, I'm literally in the midst of moving out today and into my sublet for the month of July. Once that is settled, I'll drop a new blog about work restrooms, technique, and associated anxieties.

A quick shout out to my loyal, faceless reader from California. Thanks.

Back to moving.

I Went To Japan

2005-12-05T21:04:00.000-05:00

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

OK Commuter

2006-06-07T02:44:00.000-04:00

Ah, running.

In response to what has been over the past several months both an alarming shift in my physique and a desperate need to breathe non office-supplied air, I have recently rediscovered the brutal realities of RUNNING. Or, put more precisely in my case, Sugared Retard On The Escape.

Given this scarily comfortable period of sedentary decay, it came as no surprise to me after the run that my body had hopelessly lost touch with certain kinds of physical manuevers, such as movement. This could be seen by the rapid transformation of Cute 12 Year Old Nicky's Love Handles That Grandma Pinched when they seem to have exploded, spilling so far over my jeans that I've been forced to buy shoes for them. On the plus side, I have four legs.

No running exercise is complete without proper stretching, though, and fortunately for me this is something I can do. Confidently striding toward the stretching area, my eyes honed in on the lone person stretching there. Ohnoyoudont. A 300 year old woman was clearly issuing a direct challenge to my stretching prowess, impressively executing the two handed Bar Hang stretch. I'm not sure that she qualified for this stretch being that her feet were planted firmly on the ground... but I digress. After rattling off an intimidating array of toe touches and a full 10-minute primal scream session to get the lungs going, I set off on my quest for 3 laps.

H.o.l.y. s.h.i.t.

I'd grossly over-estimated my ability to move distances farther than my desk to the printer, thus on the second lap I cautiously chose to slow it down, and by that I mean I walked the whole lap. This felt good, but after crossing paths with folk twice my age who were inexplicably still running, and also given the presence of girls, I sucked it up and completed the final lap. It is safe to summarize my running philosophy with this difficult equation:

If: girl
Then: run.

Side note: While running, I passed by couple of fathers playing a game of "pepper" with their sons before the baseball game. Initially one of the portly pops was on the toss-and-catch end of things, aiming to tag the son in the middle, but he soon felt it necessary to take on the roll of base runner. You can kind of tell what happened next; while his son tossed the ball to his teammate on the other end, pops wisely turned his head and was beaned in the face. Haha! It was funny to hear the creative flow of expletives he soon screamed while holding his head, crumbling to the ground and kicking his feet up and down like a child.

Ah well. This whole running crusade brings to light a larger issue, I think, and that is my excessive sense of self-consciousness. My friend Brian observantly noted this last weekend while another friend Anthony WILDLY SWERVED OUR CAR ON THE CHICAGO HIGHWAY because it is apparently funny to do so, assholes. Anyway, this is true to some extent and certainly just days ago at Target. Shuffling in with an unsettling symphony of gastro-intestinal pandemonium, I found myself clutching only that vital pink bottle, beads of sweat pooling at my brow, wondering what the other customers were thinking of the freak who by all indications would explode any second.

"I can't just take this to the cashier," I thought, "not just this. They'll know."

Therefore to "normalize" my basket, I rushed over to the next aisle of logical sequence to Pepto Bismol and ended up with none other than: two boxes of macaroni.

Sigh. Baby steps.

Trouble In Paradise

2006-05-07T13:37:00.000-04:00

I think I've found a new hobby. Reading.

Last weekend my girlfriend gave me a John Deere letter through email, while I was on vacation, and I didn't know it until after I'd gotten back just a couple days ago. It kind of hit me like a ton of bricks. More surprising than anything, but after thinking about it I guess I'm not so surprised.

We'd been together not even three months. I figured I'd be pretty well over it after a few days of shock but like my failed relationships before it, its the last thing on my mind before I sleep and the first when I wake. I've got this kind of problem, I guess, where I'm every bit as avoidant as I am dependent. So when I fall into a relationship, which I in fact secretly love to be in, I tend to want to act as if I'm not in one at the same time. Two years ago I was stunned when a girl-friend of mine, the kind of girl-friend you lose sleep over wishing there wasn't a hyphen, told me with a kind of jarring bluntness that I was "high maintenance."

High maintenance! Fuck.

And like I said, it hit like a ton of bricks. I woke up today and poked around on the intarweb for a few hours and then half-heartedly tried watching tv. I couldn't even find anything to be artificially interested in. So I turned it off. And sat there. Look left, nothing. Look right, nothing again. Silence. And that's when I hit peak bugging because when you're alone in your apartment with no task to carry out and no one to think about, that's when the unanswerable "why me" questions flood your mind. Texting my friend needing advice, he told me to head to Borders, so that's what I did.

As if this relationship didn't remind me again how I'm older than ever before, I had to address this sort of issue with the cashier after buying a Murakami book.

"Did you graduate today?"
"No, I graduated about a year and a half ago."
"What are you doing here, then?"

Say what, bitch?

"Oh, I work on campus."
"What do you do?"
"We do social surveys."
"Ahhhhh, very good. Would you like a Borders card?"
"Sure."
"Phone number?"
"320-XXXX"
"That's my number."
*blink*
"Just kidding."

This woman was at least 55 years old. Anyway, what AM I doing here? Why aren't I... somewhere else? I don't have an answer for that. But for the here and now, I decided that something had to be done to right this ship, to plug me back into society as sad as that sounds. I plopped down in the cafe area with my book, sipping my drink and looking very single. This of course translates to I didn't read much of my book, and stared at the attractive girl over there as if I'd lived in a cave with my cousin Zakkkk my whole life. I probably wasn't helping my own case with my pants at my ankles, but that's altogether another story.

After reading this through it sounds as if I'm trying to work up a date. I'm not. If I were, there would've been mention of fair compensation and a ride back to Dancing Tiger. To get back on topic, I think I've picked up a new hobby; reading. I never really did it in school, ever, but it actually feels very nice to engage my mind a little bit again. For you Murakami readers, let's talk books. Its late now though, but I just wanted to finish draining the emotional hangover. Pass the kleenex.

My next entry might be about the way I cut pancakes.

____________________________
*Reading The Wind Up Bird Chronicle

NOTICE

2006-04-28T12:50:00.000-04:00

If you came here hoping to find a picture of an ostrich, leave now. Just leave.

There aren't any pictures of ostriches on this site, or on the entire internet (I've searched).

Mental Crash

2006-04-17T11:03:00.000-04:00

For the loyal few of you who keep returning to this page, hoping to see a report of my life spiraling out of control, lick your chops.

A few things have happened since the dreaded JET interview -- namely, I was made an alternate. This is both bad and good for me because it was obviously my first choice and one which would provide the best "package" for a foreigner, but also being named an alternate means I can reconsider whether or not I really want to hold out hope for living in a rice field.

I've got a few options now. I'm going to "accept" JET and wait and see if they contact me but I'll also apply to a few of the big english companies like NOVA and AEON. Its not like I live to teach english. In fact, fuck it. But its a job and more importantly it represents the visa necessary to work in JP. Anthony has been offered a nice gig in Chiba at AEON and is currently interviewing with Brian in Chicago with NOVA. My head is spinning from all those prepositions. A huge "plus" for going the private company route is that you're gonna live within striking distance* of a big city. Thing is, for us pampered western workers, benefits would be pretty much nil.

My leading Plan B is probably AEON, but I haven't even contacted them yet. In the meantime I keep going back and forth in my head: am I crazy? do I really want to do this? So people, leave comments telling me that I should.

That's about all. Maybe I'll return to my normal insane blogging sometime soon.

________________
*Zerg rush.!

Interview With An Idiot

2006-03-25T14:16:00.000-05:00

I've been promising a recap of my JET interview experience in Chicago for some time now. I know it hasn't been the requisite 5 months since it happened but it has been a month and change and the time is nearing that I'll find out if my ruse really worked.

Let me start out by saying I don't like Chicago. I don't like the drive to Chicago, I don't like Chicago motorists, I don't like it's slums and I don't like how everyone wants you to tip them. I had my first experience with tipping seconds after I got out of my car. I've never done the valet thing before so when I insisted on carrying my bags to the front desk (because the valet INSISTED on parking my damn car) he looked mildly disappointed, let down.

Please.

I guess I made things even more uncomfortable by stiffing him when off he went to park my car and off I went to eat my fingers the rest of the night because there aren't any fucking restaurants on the strip. After I had my fill of HAND, I called my parents to let them know I was ok. During this call my dad said many things to put me at ease for my big day, among which was "Don't forget to tip the valet guys or you'll be sleeping with the fishes in Lake Michigan." Thanks, dad.

The JET interview the following afternoon was cause for both a golden period of confidence (approximately 14 minutes) and then several weeks of self-doubt and loathing. I felt good enough about my knowledge of Japanese current events and other "quick facts" that in the preceeding days to the interview I studied the intangibles by: buying pretentious coffee-inspired drink at Borders, spreading papers all over, listening to my iPod and feverishly touching myself beneath the table. Ok, ok, I wasn't really listening to my iPod.

I feel as though I said some good things -- my mission is 'internationalization', helping the kids grow as people, teaching them the c-word -- and that I said some regretful things. We all know I'm good at that. My 'demo lesson' on an American holiday was predictably bland (Christmas) and not wholly American now that I think about it. I failed so miserably at that that they had to cut me off -- "that's enough, thanks."

What's done is done, though. Despite some horrific interview moments I think I accomplished what I set out to do, and that was to appeal to the panel's emotions more than, say, demonstrate my inability to teach english. Today is 25 March and I should know my status with JET sometime within the next 12 days. To be honest I'm excited and scared shitless at the same time.

Regrettable Unforgettables

2006-03-06T12:02:00.000-05:00

In keeping with the theme of blogging 5 months after I should, I've compiled a list of regrettable things I do on a regular basis which have put me in socially awkward positions.

With my old age (24), senility’s icy cold grip has begun squeezing my neck and at work, especially, I've felt the effects. No longer can I proofread a survey in decent time, such as an entire work day, without considering suicide or burning it outside during lunch hoping my bosses will forget the survey (the one we were contracted to do) ever existed. Anyway, the fact that I've lost my mind has led me into several inescapably uncomfortable situations in the office over the last few months. Examples:

The Wig. Every morning I retrieve my center’s mail at the dorm front office. This always provides a good break in my day, a transition period between the silent, early morning surliness and teeth gnashing rage that consumes me after lunch. I fucking hate proofreading surveys. This little field trip of mine also provides a chance to say hi to a few happy faces before resuming my task of rapid decomposition. I was handing some mail over to the supervisor and noticed unusually purply-brown sheen on her hair. Not one to really inspect things I glance at nor think about them, nor yet realize I don’t in fact have any game, I found myself complimenting her on how nice her hair looked.

“It’s a wig.”

And here was when I promptly left, tail between my legs. What would you have done? Right.

I Love You. Sometimes that mad little scientist I believe is turning cranks, writing things down, and advising me what to say from somewhere deep inside my scattered mind computes something funny and like a receipt emerging from whateverthefuckitscalledthatreceiptsemergefrom, out comes a joke so horrifically regrettable that I’m lucky I don’t show up on several “Sex Offenders Near You” sites. Well, not that bad. Take for instance one day in the office. The five of us assistants are working diligently on things. One of us, let’s call him SteveDave, kindly took our portions of a task and was doing them for us, prompting a female coworker to remark, “SteveDave, we love you for doing that.”

Sensing comedic opportunity, the mad scientist dropped his clipboard and ran over to a type-writer to punch out what I was to say in the coming seconds, something that to this day still haunts me. I waited for immediate chatter to die down, plus 3 more seconds of silence, and said, flatly,

“I love you, SteveDave.”

Never before had it been so quiet in that office, and never before had I wished so surely to light myself on fire. Either no one understood that I in fact did not love SteveDave or everyone was shocked at such an open, intimate admission of feelings. For those of you scoring at home, SteveDave didn’t say goodbye to me that day like he normally did.

Image Search. Continuing the theme of wanting to burn myself alive, I perhaps had another lapse in good judgment recently. Our beloved friend SteveDave was laughing at an email we received from a woman, rhetorically asking us “What do you say to a 55 year-old woman asking what ‘transgender’ means?” Once again, mad scientist dropped his clipboard and ran over to a primitive looking computer panel, pushed some buttons, pulled some levers. Forgetting that we DO work in social research, revealing all of society’s moral black eyes, and that I DO work with a self-proclaimed “queer” girl who is acutely sensitive to offensive comments, I wisely blurted out without hesitation:

“Do a google image search!! Haha.”

Stop it right now, I know what you’re thinking, I know what she was thinking, and I’m not so callously insensitive as to imply that transgender people equals pictures we can laugh at.

Not necessarily.

What I did have in mind, though, was that you can type in any innocuous search term on Google and receive approximately 1,503 pictures with a hilarious mixture of leather, tubs of Helmann's mayonnaise, and midgets. The humor unfortunately (for me) went unseen and you can imagine the icy cold mind bullets that hit very soon thereafter.

*********
Additionally, and without fail, I maintain my habit of making social blunders in and out of work. I can’t not look at blazingly white teeth, for one. This girl came into work looking for someone and man, she had some chompers. Them shits was WHITE. So I’m talking to this girl and apparently also completely failing in my attempt to hide the fact that I’m staring with mouth open at her pearly whites.

She covered her mouth and continued talking.

I appropriately felt like a freak and later at home tore off my clothes, turned on cold water, and huddled into a ball in the shower, scream-crying myself to sleep.

Oh, it gets worse – I was at the bar and bumped into an old schoolmate / acquaintance. Thing was, I had just returned from the restroom and my hands were wet as all hell. “Dear god,” I’m thinking, “please don’t want to shake my hand.” Perhaps because I am a non-believer, god said “And they shall shake hands. Hahaha.” I had no choice but to give him the wettest, most disgusting handshake he’ll ever have. And most likely the last one from me.

Finally, I end this entry with a complaint of my own. Anyone who uses a mouse and has coworkers will understand that one seemingly loses all ability to work a computer when another stands over them from behind. This was embarrassingly evident last week when one of my bosses oversaw me as I worked the mouse. Nervous and wanting desperately just to make her leave, I accidentally double clicked something which clearly required one click, like a link, and could tell she was mocking me to all hell in her head. There’s no greater feeling of helpless regret than that, my friends. Damn, girl.

I’m out. Next up: short review of my JET interview in Chicago.