October 23–27霜始降 Shimo hajimete furu - First frost
October 28–November 1霎時施 Kosame tokidoki furu - Light rains sometimes fall
November 2–6楓蔦黄 Momiji tsuta kibamu - Maple leaves and ivy turn yellow
An untitled piece from Dec 2021 by late Vancouver pop artist, BOY. RIP.
Thursday, October 13th
Stink eye. Side eye. The 'hairy eyeball'.
I couldn't figure it out.
On my usual morning run up the Horikawa to Miya and back, it seemed like everyone not glued to their infernal handsets was giving me the once over, like I'd just been dropped off by a flaming U.F.O.
Or shit in the backseat of their family Lexus.
At first it pissed me off. When someone shoots me a look, I shoot one right back...then throw in a confrontational (if slightly juvenile) comment to the tune of....
"Staring problem?"
"Take a picture - it lasts longer."
Or the tried and true, " What are YOU lookin' at?", rounded off with a 'fucker' or 'asshole', just for good measure.
Of course, no one understands what I'm on about. They just continue on their way, totally oblivious.
Or so it seems.
The natives are possibly the most collectively opaque, unresponsive lot I've ever encountered. I've seen people get puked all over on a JR commuter train, and simply sit, unflinching... as vomit blew back and splattered all over their hair and faces. Nary and eyebrow was raised. No one got up. A whole row of people just sat there patiently and got barfed all over...then kept sitting there, not saying a thing.
By the time I'd hit the halfway point up at Atsuta Park, I was starting to feel a bit self-conscious. Like a luminous green eyeball had been painted in the middle of my forehead that I was somehow unaware of. I hooked over to the public washroom between the ancient Dampusan burial mound and the baseball stadium, and had a look in the mirror.
Other than maybe needing a shave, I wasn't any uglier than usual.
No glowing third eyes, toilet paper stuck to my shoes, or genitalia dangling from the leg of my shorts. Maybe the way the way the autumn sun was hitting my pale skin was making me glow translucent or something?
Or maybe there were just a lot of ignorant assholes out and about this morning.
I suppose I shouldn't complain. This doesn't happen with anywhere near the frequency it did back when I was a newbie on these shores.
Turn the clock back three decades or more, and a person of notably different skin pigmentation could expect to be accosted and even asked to pose for a picture (with or without some complete stranger), just for being 'an AMERICAN' in the wrong place at the right time.
Of course, it didn't make any difference to the locals in question if one wasn't actually an 'AMERICAN', per se. In their provincial eyes, we were all 'AMERICANS'... and they needed a snapshot - just prove to their friends, families and themselves that we were real.
It kind of reminds me of that old Kinks song.
Anyways, their odd snap shot requests would mostly be obliged, especially at first. Some gaijin found it amusing - even flattering - to be stalked by camera toting natives, and treated like some class of celebrity.
It doesn't take too long for this type of thing to start feeling creepy and invasive, though. Most people dislike being treated like amusement park mascots, or having their privacy constantly infringed on. While everyone has a different threshold for shit like this, sooner or later the requests for pictures would start being flat out ignored, or outright refused.
Occasionally there would be hard feelings.
Some of the natives would take offense. Others would persist.
After all - we were guests in their country, and such 'a privilege' surely obliged us to humour even the most loutish and outlandish of their behaviours and requests.
Coming from an almost completely racially homogenized society, the natives aren't taught that it's rude to stare, or how to behave with social grace around people who are visibly different from themselves.
It's nowhere near as bad as it was back in the day. In larger cities like Tokyo, Osaka - or even here in Nagoyaland, foreigners have become a lot more commonplace. While I haven't heard of anyone being accosted by gaijin crazed shutterbugs in ages, every once in awhile an intrepid (read: obnoxious) local will still attempt to secure some 'free Engrish practice'. They never seem to consider the time or place. That you might be busy, tired, otherwise occupied, or simply not in the mood is of no consequence.
The lead off is always the same...
"Where (are you) from? How long (have you been in) Japan?...". etc.
For lifers or longterm residents, these types of questions literally beg the response,
"How about this...none of your fucking business."
An answer like that, tempting as it may be, will usually trigger a confused, 'deer in the headlights' type of reaction from the native in question. At worst, it will set another line of inane questioning in motion. This can ultimately compound one's frustration.
In short order, we learn that it's easier to simply offer a flaccid smile, nod and keep going.
Some foreigners will elect to answer back in Japanese - time and skill sets permitting. This can be the perfect foil. Often the offending party will simply flip over their shingle and quickly scuttle off. A lot of the natives don't really dig foreigners speaking the local tongue. It seems to make them a bit uneasy. Sometimes they'll simply keep speaking broken, pigeon English, and refuse to respond in Japanese. Other times they'll try to turn it against the foreigner, by bombarding them with fast, loose, slang-heavy Nihongo (Japanese), in an attempt to stump, confuse or ultimately discourage the gaijin in question from going any further.
You see, their aim is to practice rehearsed conversational English ON YOU. Not interact or communicate. It's a one-way street.
The usual 'language leech' offenders are native guys in their autumn or senior years. Their hunting grounds are often eating and drinking establishments or sports gyms...though any facility where an 'international' mix of people gather can be considered fair game. They can be pretty brazen.
One evening Mina and I were out at a local Osho (a cheap and popular Japanese-style Chinese food joint) after a particularly long day. We'd just ordered, and I noticed a middle-aged guy sitting alone at a table against the wall, staring at us. We were chatting, and our drinks arrived. He just kept staring. I couldn't take it. I turned around, and shot him a look.
"WHAT?!?"
He seemed to light up, and mumbled back something incoherent.
It was hard to wrap my head around what happened next. He got up, grabbed his drink, and proceeded to haul a chair across the floor to our table.
What the actual fuck?
I stood up, and made a stop motion with both hands before he could manoeuvre the chair over to the corner of our table and sit down.
"Hey, hey. NO, NO, NO. What the fuck do you think you're doing?!?"
He stopped, and looked deliberately unsure of himself. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Did he actually think that it was going to be alright to just insinuate himself, uninvited, in to our evening meal time?
"Go away. GO. BYE-BYE!"
*(this is non-fail English that even the slowest witted locals can understand)
I can't remember if Mina said anything, or if she just sat there stunned. In any case, after dithering for a few seconds, it seemed he'd got the message. He turned tail and hauled the chair back to the head of the wall-side table he'd come from. I can't remember if he sat back down, or stood there and downed the rest of his draft beer before slinking out. I tend to think it was the latter.
Neither of us could believe what we'd just witnessed.
The Eikaiwa (English conversation schools) are at least partially to blame for this type of behaviour, as they actively encourage their students to go out and attempt to secure opportunities to practice 'Engrish' at any given opportunity. While one doesn't necessarily want to be a rude asshole, there often really isn't often much of an alternative.
In the same way we learn not to give milk to mewing stray cats at the door, we learn not to encourage these 'language leeches' with anything that could be construed as friendliness. When it comes to getting what they want, the natives aren't good at picking up hints. They don't get 'nuance'. There are no 'grey areas'. Finding that precious balance between common courtesy and the maintenance of personal boundaries can be a real challenge.
They will occasionally push you in to being rude and unpleasant.
Even then, some will doggedly persist.
Years ago, I had to give up a gym membership because I'd made the mistake of being friendly and accommodating to an errant language leech. He'd hang around the gym at the times I usually went, and attempt to practice his 'Engrish' on me at every opportunity. In fairly short order, it had become a distraction, and a source of stress.
Back in those days, I had a packed out schedule, and that couple of hours at the gym three times a week was my time to decompress...not give volunteer conversation classes. I'd try to drop subtle, then not-so-subtle hints. I started coming in at odd hours, and wearing headphones all the time.
While this worked for a bit; he eventually found situations in which to corner me.
His name was 'Toda'.
Every time he saw me, it was the same thing.
"Herro. I am Toda. Do you lememba me?"
He was an older guy, maybe in his mid-late sixties. Obviously retired; with time on his hands. He'd always be wandering around the gym, bone dry sweat towel around his neck, doing nothing. Or hovering around the locker rooms and sauna.
One morning I remember him standing in front of me, arms crossed, staring at me while I was on the treadmill. He wasn't waiting for his turn on the machine. I guess he'd decided that it was time for me to pay attention to him. I guess I'd made the mistake of acknowledging him with a nod when I'd come in earlier, and he'd interpreted that as an invitation to come and practice his Engrish on me at his convenience.
In any case, I wasn't in the mood. In an attempt to ward off any such misguided entreaties, I had my CD walkman going at nearly full volume. He just stood there, staring at me, his lips flapping away like he thought I could somehow hear what he was saying. Did he not understand how headphones worked...or was he engaged in some one-way battle of the wills, waiting for me to just relent and turn my discman off?
Either way, he was looking for his 'Engrish practice', and wouldn't be dissuaded.
Awkward.
I was at a crossroads. If I turned off the music and gave in, he'd be getting the attention that he wanted, and would simply do it again. There needed to be boundaries. Sometimes people are thick, and they force your hand. Ultimately, you have to teach them how to treat you, and show them where those boundaries are. Often that entails not being friendly or accommodating.
I looked at him, pointed to my earbuds, shrugged a couple of times, and just kept pumping away.
He must have stood there yammering at himself like a fucking idiot for ten minutes before stalking off in an obvious snit.
From then on, he ACTIVELY ignored me. Like some kind of jilted lover.
I guess he spread the word about how inexcusably rude I'd been to him - and that I should be ignored at all costs. Word travels fast in these places. In any case, the bad vibes in there quickly became tangible.
Even the usually indifferent staff seemed to have turned icy and assholian.
This type of thing falls under the auspices of what the natives call Murahachibu (村八分) - 'ostracism of those from outside the village'.
In addition to being extremely clannish, the Japanese are an overwhelmingly passive-aggressive people. They hate direct confrontation. One of the most commonly employed bully tactics involves freezing the target individual out of his or her peer group. For this to work, everyone has to be on board. Group acceptance is everything in this society, and to the natives, being frozen out is akin to being killed.
I started to realize that I wasn't the one being a rude arsehole. He was the one presuming that it was perfectly alright to stalk me, and use up my time. My feelings on the matter were of no consequence. Foiled and frustrated, he'd gone about some class of character assassination to exact his revenge.
Now the proverbial pool had been poisoned. I just wanted to go in, do my exercise routine, and be left alone...and now I was being treated like some sort of social pariah. The 'Gaijin Treadmill Leper', if you will.
I finally let my membership lapse, and just gave up.
Some years later, when it was time to bring the curtains down on my early 40's Fat Elvis period, my decision to lace up the running shoes as opposed to joining another gym was directly informed by said past experience, and my desire to avoid any more 'awkward' situations with the natives.
To be fair, I suppose a lot of people join these places for social reasons. Sports gyms over here are full of retired people who spend hours wandering around chatting, and little to no time working out. As de-facto social clubs, they aren't ideal venues for 'selfish gaijin arseholes' to exercise.
So, it's the canal course for me. Hairy eyeballs, angry crows and predatory homosexuals aside, it's a damn site more scenic than the bleak insides of an over-priced sports gym. There's fresh air, sunshine if I'm lucky, and while there's always the outside chance some college kid might pop out of a hedgerow on his folding bike and offer up a wad of cash to suck me off, no one solicits for free 'Engrish' conversation.
A little over a month ago, I even came across a neatly folded ¥10,000 note (about $95.00 CAD, give or take) on the west promenade. I was on my home after doing the north-south stretch, and there it was. Lovely and pristine. In one fluid motion, I snatched it up, tucked it in to my waist pouch, and continued on my way.
For a fleeting instant, it felt like the local deities were smiling on me. I basked in the rare and gracious warm glow of their favour for the remainder of that goodly day.
Perhaps best of all, the sudden lucky windfall I'd reaped involved not a single errant rich kid in pursuit of the contents of my shorts.
I still can't figure out what this morning's hairy eyeball business was all about. Mina thought that it might have had something to do with the fact that I don't wear a mask when I go running. From the onset of the pandemic, I never have. It's been almost three years.
So...what gives?
On Tuesday, October 11th, the country officially re-opened to free-range tourists - the last G-7 nation to drop it's draconian restrictions. Those so inclined no longer require freshly documented negative test results, tour reservations, or special visas to enter unmolested by the Immigration cops...just proof of being thrice jabbed with an approved vaccine.
No...the pandemic isn't over. There are still too many daily positives over here to declare it 'a done deal', like Biden recently did in the U.S.
With coverage of the returning hordes of bare-faced tourists all over the evening news, it seems that the tired old 'to mask or not to mask' debate is front and centre again.
When I jog past, does the average 'machi no hito' (man on the street) really think that I'm a COVID packing American tourist, deliberately ignoring Japanese mask etiquette just to make a point about 'my freedom'? Of the other runners I see out and about these days, nine out of ten are maskless local natives.
It wasn't always like this. Turn the clock back to mid-spring, and half of them were running around masked or double masked. One can only assume that they were enjoying themselves.
It's their prerogative, anyways.
Just over two years ago, both the W.H.O. and Japanese government stated that there was essentially no public health risk posed by people exercising outdoors, given that they weren't shouting, and a reasonable amount of social distancing was being observed.
In any case, I'm public enemy number one.
Again.
Several years ago, a Japanese cop told Mina that "all bad things and trouble come from gaijin". If that isn't a blatant enough confirmation of the type of racist mindset that's routinely perpetuated over here, I'm not sure what is.
Living under this kind of constant scrutiny is exhausting. It doesn't matter how many years or decades elapse, either. Change is so incremental that it's virtually impossible to gauge in any meaningful way.
I imagine this will go on for a couple of weeks, until the natives tire of it and latch on to something else. Or another variant rears its head, and numbers start shooting up exponentially. Then they'll have something tangible to blame me for.
Sigh.
Friday, October 21st
The mornings are getting noticeably cooler; but by high noon, we're mostly up around a relatively comfortable 20C. The natives appear to have knocked off the hairy eyeballing, in so much as it hasn't been as obvious, at least.
This morning's shot up the canal and back was blissfully uneventful. Pleasant, even.
Never mind that I don't really enjoy hauling my arse all the way out to Miya and back four or five days a week. In lieu of any scheduled paying employment, I treat it more or less like a job. The dividends I reap come in the form of feeling at least marginally better, and an acceptable 'bill of health' at my annual 'ningen dock' (literally meaning 'human dry-dock') full physical. That's coming up on Halloween Monday. It's a yearly ritual that no one particularly enjoys.
Every November, Mr. Insecthead expects me to bring him a truncated version of said 'bill of health', replete with all of my basic health data. I somewhat resent having to provide him with the specifics of my physical condition every year. It's none of his fucking business what I weigh, or whether my cholesterol count is higher or lower than it was last year.
Dr. Cauliflower Ears, my rugby playing dickhead CPAP guy/respiratory specialist/de-facto G.P. will be expecting a copy as well. I have fewer qualms giving it to him, though he is a rude prick. I'll also have to book my influenza jab next time I go in to see him.
It wasn't like this twenty years ago.
I never saw a doctor unless I was deathly ill. Now it's this and that, and I'm there at least once a month getting my chest listened to, and having prescriptions for asthma medication renewed and filled. I suppose I should be happy. If this country has anything going for it, it's good and relatively affordable access to high quality dental and healthcare. The subsidized prescription drugs are nice, too. We only pay 30%...the system picks up the rest of the cost. How long this system will continue to hold up is anyones guess. I doubt it will be quite as good another twenty years down the road; but I imagine if I haven't slipped off this mortal coil by then, I'll at least have one foot pretty firmly out the door.
Last weekend minding okasan was the first real rough ride we've had with her in a few months. Saturdays usually go fine; but she seemed to be in a mood from the get-go, and things just never got any better. Old people can be that way. I hope it was a one-off, and not a harbinger of what we can expect in service weekends to come.
She landed a solid 'D' on her old lady weekend report card. The first one of those in quite awhile. If there was a silver lining to all of that, it's made this week seem comparatively bucolic. There's nothing like someone's miserable disposition to absolutely foul the atmosphere of one's home. When the offending party finally leaves, the sense of levity and relief is palpable. Like a massive bank of dark clouds has moved on.
Monday came with some upsetting news from back in Vancouver. Checking my Facebook feed early in the morning, I came across a friend's post, announcing the passing of someone I knew quite well from the old neighbourhood. Derrick Humphries (aka 'BOY') was a friend, talented artist and integral part of the local community. We'd lost touch, and hadn't seen each other for over 20 years.
While you'd never know from his disposition, he'd had a rough life, and long struggled with various health issues. He died of heart failure over the weekend in a locked down intensive care unit. Apparently he went in his sleep. He was 59.
He was probably the person I spent the most time with on my last few visits to Vancouver in the late 90's...before all the bickering and feuding between my Mum and Gramma prompted me to lay off on any further trips out for the better part of a decade.
With the exception of one brief and inebriated transit visit en route to a family wedding in California back in 2002, I stayed away. This is a decision I've come to regret in the years since.
When I finally went back in the spring of 2007, after getting news of Mum's terminal cancer diagnosis, Derrick was long gone... along with almost everyone else I'd known in Kits back in the day.
The old neighbourhood - in fact, Vancouver itself - was changing pretty fast.
As my Mum was sick, I didn't make any calls, or attempt to reconnect with anyone. Aside from stopping in at P.D.'s Hotshop (Skull Skates) over on 4th ave, I kept to myself. The sole purpose of my trips out there from that point on were to spend time with my family, which I did.
Through social media, I got word that Derrick (aka, BOY) had kept at the pop-art project I'd seen him start back in the late 90's. He'd found a degree of success, and finally made something of a name for himself, living and continuing to do his art in Vancouver's dilapidated DTES (downtown east side).
When SNFU came out to Nagoya 9 years ago, I hung out with their late frontman Ken, (Chi Pig - an artist in his own right) with whom I shared a number of mutual friends. He mentioned that Derrick had been having a bit of a rough time of it. This was nothing new. 'BOY' suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, and had struggled with what seemed to be increasingly frequent episodes in the later years I knew him.
Fortunately, there were always people around that kept an eye on him, and did their best to make sure he got the help he needed when he started to teeter on the edge. He'd be in and out of treatment facilities, stabilize, and then be seemingly fine again...until he wasn't.
Again.
In the interim years, I'd seen a couple of things featuring him on YouTube. He looked fine, and was articulate and animated. He'd had something to do with the then-revival of the old Smilin' Buddha Cabaret space on East Hastings. Around ten years ago, a group of movers and shakers in the old Vancouver scene had transformed the infamous skid row bar/legendary old school punk venue into an indoor skateboard ramp, cafe and multi-media space. I think Derrick had been involved in showing his art over there, or had been otherwise contributing.
I was happy that he'd apparently landed on his feet, and was doing what he loved and believed in - at least, it appeared so.
Time passes so fast.
The sudden news of his death hit me a lot harder than I thought it would, given the number of years that have gone by. There are certain images and memories of that guy that just hang in my mind, as real as yesterday. Offhand comments and scraps of wisdom. A lot of things I haven't thought about for a very long time.
Good memories. Funny and poignant stuff from an era gone by.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Things have been moving at half-speed all week.
A personal favourite. One of BOY's larger panels. 'Untitled', as far as I know, and not certain when it was done; but it was posted on his FB page September 3rd of this year. According to his corresponding comment, it's an image he'd created in the 90's .
That's where we'll leave it for now.
Until we next convene, you'd do well to remember that...
"No matter where you go, there you are".
There, and nowhere else.
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