Coming up on mid-year already, and only the second dispatch of 2018 from these far flung precincts. Nothing much to report, a lack of motivation - or perhaps a little of both? Hard to say. I seem to be veering away from my usual online pursuits, of late...or at least, in the investing of too much time and energy here on. Perhaps a bit of a break? I essentially write this blog for myself, as an amusement, and consider it happenstance that anyone else would actually bother to read it. When it ceases to amuse me, I tend to shift focus. It also seems to be a bit of a waste to be paying for a blog page that I never bother making entries on. As so often happens, it all starts out bursting with 'fruit flavour', and the noblest of intentions; then gradually kind of loses it's appeal, like a wad of three hour old gum. Over chewed, rubbery and laboured. In short, it becomes work. That being said, it's the week of mid-summer's solstice, and seems like as good a time as any to pick up the ball, have a rant, and give all my musty old spring laundry an airing out. Having also been recently sidelined from my daily 10km dash up our local, and occasionally putrid sea canal for the bulk of a week (due to an ouchy sprained ligament), and being in the midst of a medication-requiring bout of mid-rainy season asthma also seem to be reasonable motivating factors. The 'perfect storm'. No more viable excuses...or unwatched movies in that pile of discs on the T.V. table. So...a blogging we shall go.
A comparatively nice, and slightly early spring has finally played itself out; as of last week, the seasonal rains have arrived in abundance, bringing with them the first harbingers of that smothering, humid, wet blanket weather that brings out the very best (sic) in the J-natives. I've also noticed the sudden presence of a markedly wide(r) range of anti-perspirants and deodorants on the end cap displays at the local drug store (where there were virtually none in previous years), and noted that they all seem to be of the 'spray on', or 'handy-wipes' varieties. Could the J-folk finally be confronting a long unaddressed, uncomfortable, and foul smelling reality? Regardless, I guess it'll be another 10 years before the concept of upper-atmosphere friendly 'stick deodorants' takes hold in these parts. Weren't 'spray ons' actually banned in the rest of the world for environmental reasons DECADES AGO? Something to do with a giant hole in the OZONE LAYER? And 'handy wipe' deodorant/anti-perspirants? Really? Who on earth would bother using a scented 'handy wipe' towel to sop the putrid perspiration from under their arms, boobs, or off their sweat dripping back on a stifling hot day - and just where would they be disposing of these tainted, smelly little morsels? Sometimes I wonder whether the J-natives are truly that detached from the developments and goings on off the shores of their precious islands, if they're being willfully contrary...or just fucking dim? In any case, I'll be ordering mine from Amazon, as usual...and paying the extra to get industrial strength sticks that actually work. Not that I smell that bad (don't we all enjoy our own emissions, truth be told?)...but that's not really the point, is it? Whether or not we personally feel that we need to bathe, brush our teeth, wipe our arses, or wear deodorant...it's like a courtesy and obligation to the people that we share our space and time with.
For all the J-locals vaunted reputation for mild manners, consideration, and the maintenance of harmony, how some simple basics of personal hygiene could just not occur to them seems baffling. The late coming realization that, "YES!", in fact, at least some of the indigenous denizens of these here islands DO, in fact, smell like peed-on week-old corpses when the seasonal heat and humidity takes to rising, is indeed a welcome one. It may be worth mentioning, at this juncture, that the natives have a peculiar custom that they engage in when confronted with awkward situations, or uncomfortable realities. They pretend that they don't exist. The belief here is that if an inconvenient or unpleasant something (or someone) is ignored for long enough, it (or they) will simply cease to be. No one will lose face, or get their hands dirty...because the 'problem' will have vanished. Like 'MAGIC'. The J-natives seem to be big subscribers to the power of this particular brand of 'hocus-pocus'. Still...no matter how hard they all tried to ignore the fact that a lion's share of the B.O. in question was actually a native dilemma, as opposed to being the exclusive by-product of an ever-present minority faction of dirty, garlic eating foreigners, the 'MAGIC' simply wouldn't kick in and make it just go away. Finally...it's hard to pin the stink on a gaijin WHEN THERE AREN'T ANY AROUND. Of course, it remains to be seen whether some delicate, scented little handy-wipes, or dainty, ozone depleting body sprays will be enough to nullify the hardcore stink that some of these J-folk pack around from this time of year into early fall...or whether their inherent lack of self-awareness will prevent them from stooping to avail themselves of any of these potential de-putrifiers. Such a failure on the part of the offending parties would necessitate a reversion to their communal dependence on (and faith in) the power of said 'MAGIC' to make everyone, including themselves, smell like VIRTUAL fields of fresh lavender (the operative term here being VIRTUAL). After all, as local custom dictates, if you simply ignore something for long enough, it will just disappear...or 'MAGICALLY' transform itself into something more fanciful (at least in your mind). A good example of this would be the crippled and radiation hemorrhaging Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant - something that NO ONE talks about anymore. Of course, this is due in large part to the undertaking of a herculean effort by the always conscientious government to prevent the J-media from even making passing mention of it, in hopes that this enforced silence will invoke said 'MAGIC', and the whole horrible toxic mess will simply DISAPPEAR. Figuratively and physically. Fade from the popular consciousness, and be forgotten, like a bad dream. Or, better yet... turn into a lovely, sculpted, fancy garden...fragrant and lush, in all seasons, forever and ever more. Sadly, though, what works for a toxic environmental calamity does little to solve the smelly gaijin problem. No amount of ignoring, delicate handy wipes, or dainty ozone depleting spray-ons seem to be enough to make them go away...and the only thing that will kill an actual gaijin's stink, is his absence.
Or, maybe fire.
It's hard to wrap my head around the fact that the year has already hit mid-stride. This week started off with a distinctive jolt... yet another earthquake, and markedly stronger than the usual mild tremors that are an almost daily occurrence here abouts. This time it triggered the emergency klaxon thing on the TV....which sounds like a hyperactive kid running their hands up and down the keys of an electric piano. A nasty, deliberately disturbing noise. Of course, I was on the shitter, and my first concern was of an incoming TSUNAMI. Of course, that would only happen mid-poop. Fortunately, we managed to dodge that bullet (yet again)...though the possibility of encroaching disaster and calamity is never far from anyone's thoughts on these here 'sacred isles'. Particularly when that god awful T.V. klaxon thing starts going off. In the worst case, I would hope that we were here at home, and could simply race up the stairs to the landing on the 7th floor. Out roaming the city, things would be looking decidedly more desperate. No chance of the 'MAGIC' saving our arses, then. Earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, nuclear reactor meltdowns, typhoons, even the remote possibility of errant warheads from whichever direction....they're all uniformly impervious to the aforementioned 'MAGIC'. Osaka didn't fare as well this time around. Trains stopped, and a shoddily erected, unstable concrete block wall fell on an 8 year old kid on her way to school, with most unpleasant results. Now the 'news' programs are rife with exposes and examinations of every shoddily constructed concrete block wall in every far flung locality from one end of this 'divine archipelago' to the other. That's a lot of shitty concrete block walls. Tens of thousands, actually. This is something of a windfall for the nation's media outlets, though...as it provides enough distracting fodder to pad out their broadcasts, and crowd out any possibility of having to face the uncomfortable fact that they really CAN'T report on anything truly 'newsworthy'...because the sitting government has made that ILLEGAL. Everything has to pass through an official filter, and be approved before it can be reported on. Non- compliance can cost media outlets their licenses, and reporters, potential jail time. Hence, local news programs are like the journalistic equivalent of Wonder Bread or instant ramen. All fluff, all the time. Though so-called press freedoms are enshrined in the nation's constitution, the sitting government has different ideas, and has seen fit to circumvent or outright ignore this pesky document whenever it has impeded any incumbent policy initiative that may run contradictory to its neo-fascist aspirations. The current by-line seems to be, "Thou shalt not disturb the nation's harmony, nor interrupt economic activity, under penalty of the fullest application of the (sitting government's) law". In other words, don't wake the sleep walkers. Let the 'MAGIC' do its thing. Or go to prison.
Almost on cue, as the 'deadly shoddy concrete block wall' narrative has nearly run its course (and to compound the pleasure of my latent asthma wheezing and pulled ligament malaise)...it's WORLD CUP FEVER time! Every groupist bandwagon jumper and budding 'Johnny come lately' knuckle dragger on Planet Japan is all over this like the proverbial stink on poop. Me? It may come as some surprise to whoever has deigned to wade this far into my seasonal ass braying that I'm not a big fan of sports, in general. Not in playing, or watching. I suppose I did go though a brief period of fascination with ice hockey in early elementary school. Having grown up in Canada, I'd say that would be pretty typical. It's so much part of the popular culture over there...it's almost ubiquitous. I wasn't the most athletic kid at school. Not aggressive, or competitive. I had no burning desire to join a team, hoist a trophy, or WIN. I'd rather draw, read comics, or listen to records. Go to the library. On a bright sunny day, I'd prefer to be watching old monster movies, or Gilligan's Island on T.V. in the basement, than outside running around shirtless. kicking some fucking ball. Of course, this doesn't bode well in what I've come to refer to as 'the society of men'...in which, from a very young age, the group's pecking order and social status rankings are determined by how high one can jump, how hard one can punch, and how accurately one can guide a ball or puck in the desired direction to achieve victory and glory for their group. Nothing could have possibly excited me less, and my sheer lack of desire and interest was only matched by my boundless lack of ability in all of these pursuits. Not only did this translate into a pretty woeful social ranking in 'the society of men' at school, but as an obvious disappointment to any potential father figure or significant 'male influence' I would ever happen into contact with, at least until I reached college. My step father was, of course, no exception. I suppose it's hard enough shouldering the responsibility of another man's cast off child, especially when your own biological children seem so much more deserving of any attention or affections; but when the little bastard doesn't even like sports, it must really suck the shitties. I guess that's just nature at work. Perhaps the one opportunity to 'bond' with a cast off young bastard would be over a traditional 'male' pursuit, like sports.
Apparently, this was the hope when I was around 10 years old...and as the story goes, unbeknownst to me, my step father had some designs on getting me registered into a local soccer club for boys one autumn Saturday morning...but I had got up early, and taken off on my bike to watch cartoons at a friend's house, as I often did at that age. I imagine the idea was to 'man me up'. Create some kind of potential bonding situation. Anyways, the shit hit the fan, I got the stone cold silent treatment, and all the blame in the world. Honestly, the whole proposition had never been mentioned to me. How I might have reacted to it is hard to say. As a kid, I was always a ball of nerves, and the slightest upsetting or anxious thing would set me off on a bout of gagging. Actual dry wretching. Very unpleasant. I'd have my head in the sink for a good twenty minutes, and emerge a spent looking mess. I don't know what kind of bullshit line he fed my mother, but at that stage of the game, he was the boss...and she wouldn't question his 'authority'. That would all change a few years later, when he gambled the family house out from under us, then got drunk and and beat her in front of me...but that was all a stone's throw into the future. I have this enduring image of him slumped on the couch, half conscious, with his gin and tonic in front of Sports Page at 11pm. Good times.
Several years later, as my Mum shuffled him out of the picture, and my biological 'California' father magically re-emerged, the results were similar. I guess he had been disappointed when he asked my Mum if there was anything I needed...like 'sports gear', that he could send along in a care package from down south, and she responded that I was, "...not that kind of kid". His ten year absence had left a real gap, and that it couldn't be filled with at least cursive bonding over the usual 'male' things, like sports talk and athletics, made it tougher. A former U.S. Naval officer, he was a man's man, and must have been stumped by my lack of testosterone fueled interests. That, and the American/Canadian divide made it hard to really establish any kind of bond. That ship had sailed during his extended absence. When I visited stateside as a teen, he tried. Took my half-siblings (by his second wife) and I to a baseball game, a football game, wrestling...and while I enjoyed the events, I had no idea of or appreciation for the teams, athletes, or 'sports'. My step father had similarly taken me to see the Vancouver Canucks play, and to watch the Harlem Globetrotters, with free tickets he'd managed to come into at his job as a Trust Company manager. Again...while I recall enjoying getting to go out somewhere and eat popcorn, and take in the excitement of a real live 'event' (these opportunities were few and far between), the actual meat and potatoes of it was of little interest to me. As soon as we were home, I'd be in front of the T.V., drawing, or into the comic books, again.
Back to soccer, which was one of the standard team sports for guys and girls alike when I was in high school, and often played in P.E. class as an easy 'go-to' time killer. Of course, any team sport seemed to bring out the latent baboon-ness in a lot of the guys, and with the slightest provocation, all the attendant simian grade ugliness in this burgeoning 'society of men' would quickly rise to the surface. The only thing I hated more than Math class was P.E.
I would routinely try to find any way at all to get out of it. Faking illness or injury, forging notes from my Mum, or simply not showing up were all my usual modus operandi...though inevitably, the 'powers that were' caught on and sanctioned me with some kind of threat if I didn't buckle down and start attending in the final term of my last compulsory year, which I believe was the 11th grade. I think 'they' said that I'd have to go to summer school, or repeat P.E. in my grad year with the younger class if I failed to materialize, and at least attempt to participate for the remainder of the semester. In any case, I had to actually show up for the final stretch, which was no fun at all. When it came to picking teams, the thug P.E. teacher would elect the biggest arsehole jocks in the class as team captains...and, predictably, I would be just about the last one on the pitch after everyone else had been plucked up for one team, or the other. Me and some hopeless E.S.L. kid, usually. Then, to add insult to injury, they'd fight over who had to take me...while everyone else (thug P.E. teacher included) openly sniggered. On top of this, they'd decide that the game should be played as 'shirts' vs. 'skins'. I'd inevitably end up on 'the skins'. As a shy, un-athletic kid that hated even taking my shirt off at the beach, this was the worst. Not to mention the fact that Vancouver is always cold and damp...except for maybe three weeks during July, when it's OK to go outside at mid-day in a t-shirt. Needless to say, I resented the entire exercise. One particular day, I decided to try something a little different. I had nothing to lose, anyways; I was sick of the thug P.E. teacher constantly goading me to chase the ball. My usual 'strategy du-jour' was to move to the farthest point on the pitch from where the ball, or any chance of action was going down, sink my hands in my pockets, and bide my time until it was all over. Somehow, as occasionally happened, the ball inadvertently came in my direction...and El Thuggo started braying at me to "wake up!" and "KICK THE BALL!!". So, I did. I kicked it right past the posts and straight into the goal. My team's goal. Pure pandemonium. A moment of rare comedy. Even El Thuggo cracked a smile, though he was trying real hard to shake his head in disapproving consternation. I took a deep bow, and was off the hook. Pretty much from then on, my physical presence would be enough to get me a bare minimum pass, and be done with it. Shortly before the buzzer, the game was called, and everyone moved off field to the changing rooms...and while there was a general air of levity after my winning goal, not everyone was smiling. As the changing room started to clear, it became evident that there was a problem. A few of my regular tormentors, the key jock-sporto types, were gathered around King Jock Sporto, who was staring into his locker, his shoulders hunched, and his red face clenched, and soaked with tears. They were trying to console him...gently patting him on the back, and touching his shoulders...much the way you see monkeys grooming and preening over each other on those National Geographic documentaries. I ventured what I felt was an obligatory, "Hey...are you OK?", to which his jock-sporto sympathy monkeys looked up and eyed me, steadily shaking their heads, as if to say, "Haven't you done enough, ALREADY?" Then he looked up, straight at me, face flushed, and eyes swollen from crying. "You're SICK!" That was all he could muster. He was crushed.
It turns out his team...OUR TEAM... had lost the game, on account of my 'winning goal'. It was just too much for him to take. I just sort of shrugged, grabbed my gym bag, and left. Losing is a bitch, I guess. I think that was the last we ever spoke, actually. Anyways...the pressure was off on me ever having to chase down or kick another ball, and that was a huge win for team Shaun. That incident has always stuck with me, though. I still find it hard to conceive that anyone would invest themselves so wholeheartedly into a game of kick ball. Even today, I see these soccer players dashing up and down the pitch, doing their dumb victory dances and mugging for the crowd and cameras, and it takes me right back to that moment. The sobbing King Jock Sporto getting sympathy groomed by his group of monkey pals...all tears, stroking ape fingers and crushed pride. There was to be no boasting or narcissistic display that day. I find it all tragically humorous.
Fast forward to present day Japan, late June, 2018...and World Cup Fever has the groupers of this nation shamelessly grouping, howling like horny donkeys, and proudly embracing their fierce, seething tendencies toward a very frightening brand of nationalistic fervour. 'Samurai (navy) Blue' football jerseys adorned with the players names and numbers, and the ubiquitous Hinomaru (red and white national flag) patches abound. Seething crowds pack public venues on game days to guzzle beer, wave flags, bang plastic tubes together, and act like unhinged arseholes. This is a contest not so much of individual athletes or teams, as a clash of nations. A drive to subjugate and defeat the opponent, and assert one nation's inherent superiority over all others. I find it gross. Few things are as unattractive to me as aggressive patriotism and nationalism. Whether it's the World Cup, or Olympics...it all turns my stomach. Maybe I've seen too many old newsreels. I think of the fervent crowds waving Japanese war flags as columns of soldiers marched down the main streets of Tokyo on their way to slaughter the hapless population of Nanjing from those shakey old 1930's era black and white films, of Leni Riefenstahl's forbidding Nazi-era masterpiece, 'Triumph of the Will'...or of a contemporary Donald Trump rally, replete with fat, red baseball cap wearing, over-the-hill white people, waving cheap paper American flags on popsicle sticks, chanting, "Build the wall!". Therein is the crux of the problem. In a world so rife with divisions, is triggered, popular nationalism really that desirable...or does it just serve to whack the proverbial hornet's nest, and bring out everyone's baser instincts, and lesser natures?
Gross.
In addition to being thoroughly unable to connect with any excitement over sports, I can't relate to nationalism. Maybe this is due to the fact that I'm essentially stateless. While I was born in the U.S., I remember little of it, having been raised from the age of 4 in Canada...a country that ultimately offered little to an art school graduate but a place on the welfare rolls, and which I left with no intention of returning to in my mid-twenties, when I relocated to Japan, a place of some opportunity in those days. Talk about an odd place to land, but this is where the tides of destiny washed my boat ashore. Of course, there is no 'becoming Japanese'. Unless you have that sacred, noble blood coursing through your veins (at least, in part), that's simply not going to happen. Even if one dedicates themselves wholly toward attaining that elusive, but theoretically possible 'Japanese nationality', it is, in many ways, an empty prize. A piece of paper. You will always be regarded as a 'gaijin'. An outsider. The strongest benefit of finally acquiring citizenship may be that you will no longer be required to waste time at a crowded Immigration center, refreshing and renewing your documents, as foreign residents of all descriptions must do, at least periodically. So, this all leaves me very much between 'here', 'there'...and 'over there'. Or pretty much everywhere, and nowhere. Last week, a student and I were discussing the World Cup, and all its attendant hoopla, and he asked me what I considered myself....American, Canadian...or (gasp) Japanese (he actually took pause and hesitated before spitting that one out. Very odd and a bit funny)
I hadn't actually thought about it. I mean, I often reflect on what I'm not...but almost never on what I am, or consider myself to potentially be. Nationality seems to be such a source of pride for so many people. It's how they ultimately define themselves. One thing that strikes me when I make one of my infrequent trips to the U.S. to see family, is the ever present American flag. It's everywhere, Hanging in front of people's homes, businesses, on their car bumpers, hats, t-shirts. It's inescapable. As if they're collectively afraid that if they don't drape the bloody thing everywhere, they'll forget where they are.
One doesn't really see too much of this flag waving business in Canada. truth be told, World Cup and Olympic years aside, it's not really a regular fixture over here, either. It comes out in public places on national holidays...and you'll surely see it pasted all over the radical, ultra-right wing group's military- style noise propaganda trucks when they're out on a weekend crusade to remind everyone that fascism is still alive and well in 21st century Japan. Fortunately that's not a daily thing, though.
For a long time after having arrivied on these here sacred isles of Nihon, I guess I used to continue to identify as a Canadian, having grown up and been socialized there. I don't really feel that way anymore, though. I think I gradually let a lot of that go after my Mum died. While I still have family members over there, I feel less connected to the place. People are people...not a spot on the map.
The United States of America. While I was born there, and have the metaphorical albatross of an American passport slung around my neck, I've never felt any connection with, much less loyalty to the flag, or it's lofty ideals. My heart doesn't beat proudly in my chest when I hear The Star Spangled Banner. I harbour no misgivings about the country's shady history, and long list of historical misdeeds. The view from abroad isn't a pretty one; never has been. That leaves me as what could only be described as 'stateless'. A 'nothing' as my father would say. Or a 'state of one'. Well, 'state of two', if I presume to figure my lovely wife into it. I define myself with what I have (or haven't) done...not where I am geographically. Or which flag waving group I fancy attaching myself to. This may sound like an attempt at some class of shallow virtue signaling, but rest assured, it's really not.
Anyways, skewed reasoning and anecdotes all sorted and accounted for, I can really do without the World Cup display that the J- natives seem hell bent on, and hope that their team tanks and gets eliminated as quickly as possible. Another three weeks of this will take us right into the end of the near constant piss down of rainy season, smack into high summer...and with that heat, I don't think I could bear any more flag waving assholery.
It's been said that "no man is an island" (or something along those lines). The older I get, I figure that's pretty much fucking dead wrong, being 'an island' on 'an island', and all. "Garcon! Table for 'an island of two'...non smoking if you will"
That's the way the bollocks are swinging for now. If you made it this far, the good news is...there's no more. At least for awhile. Happy summer trails, and remember, as old Buckaroo Banzai used to say...
"No matter where you go...there you are"
And so on.
