Trouble Bobble

I can never seem to keep this word-baby rolling the way I want to.  As soon as I commit to blogging on a semi-frequent basis, I get work, or the flu, or a girlfriend.  And those three things eat up a lot of time.  The last one in a good way.

Have I mentioned her yet?  Apparently, I haven’t because she told me so.  I wasn’t really paying attention, which turns out isn’t something you’re supposed to do in a relationship.  In fact, girls really like it when do pay attention.  Weird, I know, but I’m learning.

So let’s fire off a few quick facts about this new ladyfine I got hanging around.

FACT:  Her name is Katie, which is a name her mother gave her, which is a name her mother gave her.

FACT:  She likes cute things like high-pitched voices, cat feet, and babies.

FACT:  She has the desire to eat cute things like cat-footed babies with high-pitched voices.

FACT:  She doesn’t know how to roller skate.

FACT:  She owns the G.I. Joe movie.

FACT:  She likes ninjas because secretly she is a kunoichi.

FACT:  She has a scar under her chin from an escaped dove that flew into the audience at a magic show.

FACT:  She was asked to join her local police force just because she is so radical.

FACT:  She has never paid for a ticket to a sporting event.

FACT:  On a bet, she arm wrestled an ambulance and won eighty bucks.

FACT:  Her favorite attack is the head butt.  She says it’s primitive and boorish, but beautiful in its simplicity.

FACT:  She broke my leg last week.

FACT:  After being cheated in Blackjack, she cut off the ear of the dealer and sold it to him for twenty-one dollars.

FACT:  One time, she ripped open a pig’s back and threw its guts at me.

FACT:  Martin Van Buren had visions of her before his death in 1862.

FACT:  She never says a word until after you’re dead.

And that’s her!  Super awesome, eh?  But that’s not what I’m talking about today.  I’ve spoken my piece on awesome ladies for the day, so I’m off to a new topic.

Difficult children.

Yeah, it seems to be a redundant phrase, doesn’t it?  But really it’s true.  Some kids are more difficult than others.  And now that I teach around 850 of them on a daily basis, I’ve begun to notice certain patterns in the students I teach.

Let’s get one thing straight before I begin.  Children are evil.  A bunch of devils the lot of them.  I don’t discriminate against my students.  I assume they’re all monstrous all-consuming vortexes of money, attention, and energy.  So I approach each one with the love and patience required to deal with your average prison inmate or resident of Miami (Don’t get mad.  Dave Barry said that joke was okay.).

Honestly, I have some nice quiet students, but they are mostly overshadowed by the loud, obnoxious, misbehaving ones.  But even them I can look past.

Because coming to a foreign country to live for x amount of time is no small task.  No one says “I want to move to Japan and slack off for a while.”  Okay, so maybe most people say that, but I don’t.  I want to make a difference.  I want to help these kids out.  And if there is anything I can do to get through to these kids about life and self-improvement, I’ll do it.  Because I see the potential in all of them.

Except one kid.

For protection’s sake, let’s call him Jackie.  Jackie is one of the punk kids who only goes to class to sleep and yell.  Sometimes he yells in his sleep, but the fact remains, he likes to yell.  I first met Jackie the same way I’ve met many of my students.  He came to my desk and looked at me.  Always happy to help a child in need, I looked up at him with a big Michael-style smile.

“How are you?” I said.

“Vagina,” he said.

From that moment on, I knew Jackie was special.  It wasn’t just the way he said ‘vagina’.  It was the twitch in his eye, and the insane cackle he gave afterward.

The second time I saw him, he was at a school assembly throwing his shoes at teachers.  He came up to me and began to say ‘vagina’ in English and Japanese repeatedly, making sure to cackle after every time he said it.  At the time, I was talking to one of his classmates, who is a punk but a good one.  He pointed at Jackie.

“This boy is ****er.”

Jackie knew this word, of course, and slapped the kid before huffing away to throw more clothing at more superiors.  Usually I would say “No, no!  Dame desu yo!  That’s a bad word,” making sure the student knew I didn’t condone that sort of language.  But this time I agreed.  Jackie was kind of a that word.

My first instinct, of course, was to avoid Jackie at all costs.  It made me look awkward and unsure of myself to interact with him, and I couldn’t look that way in front of junior high kids.  You lose a couple cool points with them and it’s all downhill from there.  But since I taught his class, he was really unavoidable.

My second instinct was to make him look stupid.  But the question remained, how do you make someone feel awkward when they willingly yell the word ‘vagina’ in public?  It wasn’t easy, but I managed to do it once.  

He had called a bunch of people over to show them that I *omg!* felt awkward when someone yelled ‘vagina’ at me.  As he geared up for probably the biggest vagina monologue of his life, I started talking to one of his freinds and ignored him.  He couldn’t stand it and got right in my face.  With all wit of a Yale man, he spouted,

“Oi!  Sensei, sensei!  Vagina!  Vagina!  Vaginavaginavagina!”

Ignoring him wasn’t working.  It was time to bring out the big guns.  Something I’d used to freak out annoying punk students before.  Being insane.

“HOLY CRAP!” I yelled, pointing wide-eyed at the wall behind him.  “Jackie, look!”  Everyone looked at the empty wall.

“Vagina!” he continued.  “No, sensei!  Vagina!”

“Man, look at that thing!” I said in horror.  “Oh, the wings.  Gross.  Super gross.  Aw, it’s spewing goo everywhere.  Gross, look at those eyes.  Oh!  It’s laying eggs on the desk!  Sick!”

No one knew what I was saying, but it didn’t matter.  No one cared about Jackie’s vaginas anymore.  He tried in vain to fluster me, but I was more interested in the alien bug on the wall.

The students around us began to giggle at me, completely ignoring Jackie.  He threw a few more vaginas at me before huffing in anger and stomping off.  I had won.  And why not?  I’d used the crazy technique on milder students than Jackie, and they all gave up on trying to bother me.

But even so, Jackie didn’t stop.  He didn’t say vagina to me anymore.  He moved on to more sophisticated topics, such as “penis” and barking like a dog.

This was when I realized my technique used to alienate students probably wasn’t the best anyway.  I instead tried to kill him with kindness.  There were several of the punk boys who hated me in the beginning, and now they love me because I took time to ask about music they liked.  So I figured just because Jackie was an extra punk, there was no reason he couldn’t turn around.

So I started my nice crusade.  I said hi to him every chance I got.  I smiled and waved.  I called on him in class when he raised his hand.  I laughed jovially when he threw things at my head.  Of course, to no avail.

Saying hi only got responses of ‘vagina.’  Calling on him when he raised his hand only got him to pretend he didn’t say anything.  And laughing when he threw things only prompted him to also laugh, then throw more things.  Then say 'vagina.'

I tried this approach for a long time.  In fact, I still try it every time I see him, but really I had given up hope.  Not so much in him, but in my worth as a teacher.  Wasn’t that why I came all the way over to Japan?  To touch children in a magical way?  (You know what I mean.  Don’t misconstrue it.).  If I couldn’t at least understand Jackie, then what good was I?

Well, I wish I could say there was some dramatic event or realization that restored my hope in myself and Jackie all at once.  But there’s not.  The resolution just came from me thinking.  I thought about all the students who I had written off as punks and then become friends with.  I thought of all the students who had written me off, and later came to like me at least a little.  And I thought of all the students who didn’t like me, but I understood they were just jealous of how well I can dance.

But Jackie was different.  He showed me that some people can’t be understood.  Some people don’t have complicated issues, like bad family or drinking problems.  Some people can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with.  Some people just want to watch the world burn.  And as much as I hate to say it even in asterisk form, some people are just ****ers. 

The end.

Ever wonder what the number one Christmas song is in Japan...still?! Yeah... WHAM!

Grandma Bike

So right now, everyone is really happy/sad about the election results. The economy sucks, unemployment is bashing old ladies in the neck, and the mortgage crisis continues to be a crisis I don’t fully understand. So, of course, these issues are on everybody’s minds. But being here in Japan has given me an amazing opportunity to see this election with a new perspective. It has helped me focus on what really matters.

My bike.

That’s right, my bike broke three days ago and things haven’t been the same since. The man at the bike shop basically said it was irreparable. This totally sucks, because it was a mountain bike. “But, Michael,” you may say, “Everyone owns a mountain bike. They’re not special.” Shut up, you idiot. Maybe in America everyone has awesome mountain, road, and BMX bikes, but not here in Japan. Over here basically every man, woman, and child rides a pathetic, gray, one-speed grandma bike with a basket on the front.

So having a mountain bike was craziness! Everywhere I went, people would stare as I rode by. My students would utter ‘kakkoi!’ (cool) as I pedaled past their one-speed hineys every day. Even students who would act up in class and laugh derisively at my white, white skin would suddenly treat me with awe and respect when they saw me jam on my brakes and slide-skid into my bike spot. It just made life so much easier.

And let’s not ignore the speed factor. Having six gears made getting to work a briggity-breeze. I could lean into tight corners, weave between gaggles of pedestrians, and smoke the ever-loving crap out of every other one-speedin’ slug-jockey on the road. It was great.

I suppose I should have been concerned when the clacking started. The chain would rub against the guard and clack whenever I pedaled down on the right side. But instead of taking it to the bike shop right away, I just renamed my bike from “Quicksilver” to “Ol’ Clacky.” I mean, the bike had been through several ALTs before me, so I just figured the clacking was a sign of character. A sort of chime to the can-do attitude that brought it this far.

So when I was riding my bike three days ago, I was completely surprised to lose my footing. “SNAP!” said the gears. “Snap!” I said in return. And that was that. No more Ol’ Clacky.

My very kind and very helpful Board of Education (that’s not sarcasm, by the way. They really are helpful) was the owner of the mountain bike. So obviously, it was their responsibility to replace it.

When my supervisor asked me “Do you…want a mountain bike…again?” I responded bluntly.

“Yes,” I blunted, knowing full well I was supposed to pick up on the fact that it was too hard to do.

“Chotto…muzukashii…” my supervisor said, hoping I would change my answer. I didn’t. Normally, I would comply full force to make my supervisor happy. After all, he’s done soooooo much for me. But this, I couldn’t budge on. I’d gotten used to the celebrity that a mountain bike brings, and I wasn’t about to give that up. “Wednesday meeting, we will talk,” he said. “Now, you ride BOE’s bicycle.”

He went inside for a few minutes and came out with a rusted, gray, grandma bike. Just like everyone else’s. He handed me the keys. “Please,” he said with a smile. But I only heard “Please…embarrass yourself.”

Riding home on that bike that night changed my mind though. Riding a grandma bike wasn’t crappy. It was sucky. There’s a difference.

All of a sudden, my status had been lowered. Instead of leaning forward to pick up speed, I was forced to sit up straight and let the wind slow me down. Not to mention bugs. I definitely ate some bugs.

The handlebars were really short, not like the gloriously wide handlebars on Quickclacky. No longer could I maneuver through crowds. Instead, when a bustle of people was walking in front of me, my only option was to squeeze the brakes and wobble awkwardly as the bike with enormous wheels decided to slow down.

Did I mention the wheels were huge? Giant wheels with thin tires controlled by a weenie handlebar. Tell me the designer of that wasn’t high when that idea hit him. Steering any more than an inch one way or the other is like trying to steer a cat on speed.

But the worst part, of course, was that I was no longer cool. Instead of feeling like a super swift bike-themed superhero, I felt the overwhelming urge to give tied handkerchiefs full of biscuits to any kind sonnies I might happen to meet. I felt like smiling all the time and giggling heartily at things that weren’t intended to be funny. I felt like Parcheesi was a good game. I felt like a grandma!

The next few days, no one said anything on my ride to school. It’s not like they hated me, but they certainly didn’t think I was cool. My feet cranked on, knowing that the crappy bike was only temporary. The BOE had to buy me a new one. I just prayed it was an awesome, awesome mountain bike.

Several days rolled by as I endured the wobbly rust monster that was my grandma bike. Finally, I got a call from my supervisor. “Hello, Michael-san,” he said quietly, almost too quiet to hear. “Etto. Tonight, we have your new bicycle. Please come to BOE.” I was jazzed. I “hai hai hai-ed” and “nn nn nn-ed” may way all up and down that phone call.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about the new bike. This was it. Ol’ Clacky was great, but he was old. A brand new mountain bike would be cooler than ever. Sleek silver. Multiple gears. Maybe even a laser point on the headlight. Maybe not, but I could tape one on. Either way, it would be sweet.

So the hour came. I cranked my rusty loan bike on its last ride under my crotch, before my crotch was transferred to a more deserving mode of transport. I parked the grandma bike and ran to my supervisor’s office. He greeted me in the Japanese way, which involves lots of smiling back and forth because neither of us can communicate with the other all that well.

He led me out the door and down the stairs. We came upon a crowd of parked bikes behind the BOE. Which one was mine? Then I saw it. The most beautiful mountain bike I’d ever seen. If I ever wanted anything under my crotch, this was it. My supervisor grabbed the handlebars of the mountain bike…and moved it out of the way.

There against the wall was a brand new grandma bike, complete with back basket for those picnics with your grandkids. He pulled it out and excitedly showed me the features.

“The back wheel,” he pushed down on it. “Shocks.” He clicked the dial on the handlebars. “Three gears. Switch, switch, switch,” he said as switch, switch, switched them. “Automatic, etto…denki…light. Automatic light.” His thumb moved to the left handlebar. RING RING! “And a new bell!”

“Oh boy, oh boy” said the Donald Duck that lives in my subconscious. I shot him with my subconscious gun. Sure, the bike was nice, but where was the cool factor? Nowhere. That’s where.

Not seeing any other option, I thanked my supervisor the bike and rode off. Sure, it was an uncool piece of steel and rubber, but it was one comfortable uncool piece of steel and rubber. And it had a speedometer. Not, that I would ever use it, but it was nice thought.

I stopped at a crosswalk, and my light went out as wheel-powered lights tend to do. But unlike most other wheel-powered lights, this one blinked green while you’re stopped. Finally, a bike with a light I can use as evidence for my case if someone hit me. Of course, being foreign, I’d still go to jail, but man I’d have a really good case.

However, all the cool features and steel frame and speedometer and new bell were not enough to convince me. I still wanted my old bike back. I parked Ol’ Newy and went into my apartment. After that, I don’t know. Maybe I watched TV?

The next morning, I saddled up (It’s funny because the Japanese word for bike seat is “saderu”. Ha ha ha! So literally, I saddled up! Ha ha ha ha! And I was on a saddle!! Ha ha ha! HA HA HA HA! HAAAA heh-heh HAAA-HA-HA! HAAAAAAAAA! … I’m done now.) and headed for school.

I passed a student and he didn’t say anything about my new bike. Of course my students have no lives and nothing better to do than notice me and everything new about my life, so why wouldn’t they say anything?

I guess I was just going to have to accept my uncoolness and live with it. I lived with it in America, so I’d just have to learn to live with it here. Suddenly, I heard a student call out.

“Oh, Maikeru. Kakkoi!” What this bike? Then I heard it again. “Kakkoi! Kakkoi!” That’s when I realized the most magical lesson of all. The power of coolness isn’t in your bike or your shoes or your candy necklace ironically worn for overplayed retro sentiment. The power of coolness is in your heart, or in my case, in the fact that I’m foreign.

So now I really love my bike. It goes pretty fast for a grandma bike and the brakes don’t squeal. The ride is smooth and comfortable and the basket is big enough for all my groceries. It maneuvers better than I thought it would and even looks kind of cool too. So things worked out.

And an update on Halloween. Turns out it wasn’t so bad. Not the same as at home, of course, but the JET Halloween party was pretty jumping. Katie and I went together as cats. We were supposed to be BattleCats, but we only had enough time to cut me up and throw blood on me, which was fine. As long as I’m covered in blood, I’m happy.

So off I go! I’m actually about to go teach my last lesson of the day. Then home, for a sweet, sweet nap. Oooooh man. I can feel that pillow already. Piece out.


















This is the new baby. Those yellow spots of light aren't refelctions of the flash. They're demon eyes tengu eyes embedded into the bike.























The back. Check out those shocks, suckas!

ALSO! One more thing. My friends started an amazing comedy project I fully support called "Carpenter 2016." Usually when your friends start some internet thing, it sucks. But those are your friends. My friends rock. So check out the videos. "Gun Control" is my favorite so far.

Boo! I guess...

I hate this cold. Maybe because I don’t have a blanket or a jacket or insulation. But the primary reason goes deeper than that. It ruins my shower time. I love my showers. They are hot and warm and relaxing. I spend too much time in the shower every day, but it’s worth the water bill to me. Sometimes I just stand there and hug the stream of hot water because I love it so much (by the way, as far as you’re concerned, I wear a bathing suit in the shower so please don’t imagine me naked). But the euphoria of that steamy streamy can’t be enjoyed, because I know in the back of my mind that it will soon come crashing down.

You see, in Japan, Your toilet and your shower are in separate rooms. In fact, your shower is a room covered in rubber from floor to ceiling, so you can splash water on the walls and floor, curtain free. Thus, there is no place to put your towel. Thus, you have to open your door to get your towel. Do you see where this is going?

Japanese homes also don’t have insulation. I don’t know why. I guess being warm just never caught on. But whatever the reason, the fact remains that a Japanese home is pretty much just as cold as the outside. So when I’m feeling nice and happy warm, filled with joy from the steam on my nape, the last thing I want to do is open the door. But I have to.

And it sucks! Opening the door just crack is like having Mr. Freeze, Captain Cold, Ice Man, and Samus Aran blast their ice beams straight at your nipples. Then your skin tightens, you shake, grimace, cringe, and start hating puppies. Nobody wants to feel that way. Especially me. I love puppies!

That’s an extreme example of my hate for cold, though. I really hate cold in all its forms. I’ve hated it all my life. But there was always one thing that I looked forward to when it began to get chilly. One thing that kept me from lashing out at small children in the park. The Holiday Season.

I speak, of course, of that wonderful conglomerate of used-to-be Christian holidays that force us to drown our sorrows in a mix of candy corn, turkey, and presents. I’ve loved these mostly-empty celebrations of nothing for all the superficial reasons. And being in Japan did not change my intense excitement for the holidays. As soon as that chill hit my pasty white arms, I thought, “Ah, I may be filled with rage, but at least Halloween is coming soon.” Yes, I love Halloween. I love candy, costumes, and creepy/grisly horror. So when my school asked me to give a Halloween lesson, I was ecstatic.

So I began planning my lesson with love and care. I even made my own game instead of stealing one from a website! It was going to be grandiose.

The day came when I gave my first Halloween lesson. I showed the ‘This is Halloween’ clip from “The Nightmare Before Christmas”, I showed pictures of my old Halloween costumes, we watched the SpongeBob Halloween special, and finished with my game. I must say one of my proudest moments was getting a classroom full of Japanese kids to say “Don’t cross the streams.” I really wanted to get them to say “This is my boomstick,” but out of context, that line could get me in trouble.

So I taught the lesson to class after class, waiting for my Halloween excitement to rise, as it normally did. But around the sixteenth, I was no more excited about Halloween than I was on the first. Where was my Halloween spirit? Time marched forward, as it tends to do. The eighteenth. The twentieth. Nothing. Lesson after lesson. The twenty-third. Nothing.

Now JET Halloween parties were being planned. People (foreign people, I mean) were talking about costumes and candy. But for some reason, I didn’t care. For the first time, I didn’t want to dress up. I didn’t want candy or scary movies. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.

Finally, after one of my lessons, I asked a student, “Did you enjoy Halloween lesson?” He thought for a while, mostly because he was piecing together the English. Finally he looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Ma ma,” he said.

Ma ma? Ma ma?! My lesson was better than ma ma! It was sugoi! It was jouzu! But it certainly wasn’t ma ma. I went to students from previous classes.

“Do you remember? Halloween lesson? Harowin oboiteiru? Was it good?” They would think and then say “ma ma,” or “so-so,” or “okay.”

This did not compute. This hardcore did not compute! They were laughing in class. They were entranced by SpongeBob’s ghostly antics. They had fun pretending I was a zombie and hitting me with umbrellas. So how could it be ma ma?

Then it hit me. Japan is the country that Halloween forgot. No one celebrates Halloween here. No one here knows the true meaning of Halloween. The schools don’t have pumpkins and ghosts. TV is missing horror movie marathons and ghostly versions of popular cartoons. The stores are devoid of the unavoidable command to buy oceans of candy to give to strangers, lest your house be egged and pooped on. That’s the true meaning of Halloween. It’s about everyone being surrounded by Halloween crap until you hate yourself for not participating.

So that’s why the kids didn’t get excited about one of the best holidays ever. They can’t be. They’re not surrounded by the commercialized hype. And that’s why this year, I just don’t care about one of my favorite holidays. Tomorrow is Halloween and I don’t have a costume. I had an idea, but I just didn’t care enough to put it together. I don’ care about candy. I don’t care because Japan doesn’t care, and I wanted it to care so very much.

But despite this, I’m still going to the Halloween party. I’m still going to watch every Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode I have. I’m still going to play through Darkstalkers with every character. I’m still going to eat bitter Japanese chocolate that doesn’t taste very good because they have no concept of sugar here. Because it’s the right thing to do! It’s the Halloweenie thing to do.

And I know that once I shoddily put together a costume and smatter fake blood on myself, I’ll feel better. I always feel better when I’m covered in blood. So Happy Halloween everyone! I hope your Halloween is scary and bright. I will do my best to make the most of this non-Halloween I have coming up. I’ll do it…for America! Peace out. I leave you with these Halloween drawings.



















This one is just a Halloween greeting I made. Happy Halloween!





















Zombie fighting guy. He has no name. Drawn on crappy paper.



















Zombie fighting guy again. Also, the first time I've tried shading in about two years.

















A gross monster? He just looks like a dumb Ultraman monster to me.

















One of the teachers at my school requested a comic for her birthday. Her birthday happens to be on Halloween.

Obento, My Bento

My allergies are pretty bad here. Just before I sat down to write, my eyes started itching. No big deal, of course. After all, I have Japanese eye drops easily within reach. And reach I do.

Drip. Drip. One in each eye.

There’s a short silence. The world stops. This is the part where I remember. “Wait, these drops burn like Massachusetts maiden in 1692.” Then the burning begins. I squint and grunt and make sounds unlike any I’ve made previously in my life. But that doesn’t stop the burning. You would think this kind of sensation is not conducive to destroying allergies, but it is. After a good five minutes, I get up off the floor and my eyes feel perfectly fine.

The only thing is, the drops smell like bleach. They really, really do. And if I find out that these eye drops are just bleach in a tiny bottle, I’ll be really mad. Because I could be getting a huge bottle of bleach to pour in my eyes for the same price as the little one. Also, putting bleach in my eyes might be bad.

But onto the topic of the day. This is a serious topic, so no more of this funny business. We can’t joke about things like this. It’s life or death. I’m talking, of course, about food.

Food is important. It feeds all the animals and some of us humans. It feeds everything from the mighty blue whale to the tiniest of walnuts with eyes painted on it. Everything needs (or at least wants) food. And I am no exception. I need food.

Before I came to Japan, I knew there would be some adjusting. Food is different here. My stomach, I knew, would have trouble adjusting to unprocessed food with no high fructose corn syrup. But it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. It couldn’t be too hard. After all, I like Japanese food. It can’t be all bad, right?

I was right. It wasn’t all bad. Much of it was, and still is, very very good. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that most of the food here is “fantastically delicious” or “deliciomongous” or evern “satisfactory. But there is one form of food I hate. One that is so foul, that it hurts me to say its name. Obento.

Technically, obento isn’t a food, but rather a collection of foods in a bento box. Bento boxes have little compartments for dropping random foods into. My school doesn’t have a cafeteria, so the best thing they can offer the teachers is a bento delivery service.

If you look up obento in google images, you won’t see what I eat. Probably because your family filter is on. The bentos we get are loaded with preservatives to keep them lasting for the seven weeks it takes to ship to my school. It usually consists of one main compartment of some sort of fried fish or battered animal, and then several small compartments consisting of various slimes. Yes, they are slimes. Sometimes you can see food you recognize swimming in the slimes, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s slime.

Whenever I see a new slime in my bento I lean over to one of my kids.

Me: “What is this?”

Kid: (Something in Japanese).

Me: “Is it good?”

Kid: No.

When I first got my obentos, I approached them differently. “I’m in a new country, with a different culture,” I thought. “I should be open to new things.” So I ate my slime. Every day, whether I liked it or not, I ate my slime. Sometimes, the slime looked like mashed up leaves mixed with coffee. Leaves are kind of like vegetables, so I would lie to myself and say it was good for me.

Sometimes the slime was corn mixed with mayonnaise. Corn is good for you, right? What about chewy slivers of plastic fish bait? That’s got lots of vitamin A. More like Vitamin suck.

Oh, did I mention these obentos are cold? Yes, not a lick of heat in them. So even the fried animal, which would probably taste good, is cold and soaking in its own greases. Needless to say, I didn’t look forward to lunch.

“Well stupid,” you might say. “Why didn’t you just stop buying them?” Because I was trapped. You can’t buy a bento-a-day. No. You have a to buy a long string of tickets to last you the month. Now who looks stupid, you idiot!

So I was cornered. My back was against the wall and a seven-foot tall bento monster was in front of me insisting that I eat him. And eat I did. Day in and day out. Slime after slime. Until the day came, yesterday, when my tickets ran out.

“Huzzah!” I cried, like a Ren Fest visitor accepting his custom leatherwork. My captivity was over. But what to do now? I had to eat something. I had to pack a lunch, but the lunches I’m used to packing in America are impossible here. Sandwiches are right out, as are snacks not containing octopus. So what then?

Soba.

I had been told weeks ago by my friend Dan that soba is the quickest, easiest, and healthiest lunch in the universe. You just boil the noodles, put them in a container, and mix them with broth. Done.

So I went to the store and bought the noodles and the broth. I came home and happily boiled the soba. I stored it in a tupperware container for the next day. But what about the broth? It came in a bag, and I wasn’t about to take a bag of liquid to school and cut it open over my desk. Likewise, I wasn’t going to put the broth in any tupperware that could come open in my bag. So no broth. Big deal. I could handle it.

I got to school today. I taught some lessons, talked to some children, then lunch rolled around. I pulled my container of soba out of the staff fridge and sat down to eat. To my surprise, I found that soba, like most wet foods put in a refrigerator, sticks together. But it was still edible and it wasn’t obento.

I stabbed at my cube of soba, doing my best to cut it with my chopsticks. After the first bite I thought, “Wow, this tastes like nothing. But nothing is better than bento.” So I chewed forward. After the second bite I thought, “Wow, this is the most boring thing I’ve ever eaten.”

And yes, it was boring. Bland does not describe its flavor. Mind-numbingly dull is a better description. It’s like there’s a party in your mouth and everyone’s invited, but nobody came.

Halfway through the meal, I was literally in pain from how bored I was. But I wouldn’t go back. I couldn’t go back to those bentos! Never! So I pressed on. I chomped and chewed through bite after skull-bashingly dull bite. It was as boring as a school field trip to an apple orchard or watching a Mickey Mouse cartoon.

By the end, my stomach was full, but my mouth was about ready to divorce me. And sadly, I still have no way to carry my broth to school. My neighbor Nikki said to get a thermos, but I fell asleep after I came home from school today. When I woke up it was 8:00pm, which is far too late for any store to be open in Japan.

I must be off to bed soon, as it is late again and I can’t risk random napping tomorrow too. But before I go, one thing:

I have recently decided that Fleischer's Bimbo cartoons are the best thing ever. At least the very early ones are. While every other cartoon studio in the early thirties was looping the same dancing cows for forty seconds at a time (I’m talking to you, Disney), Fleischer studios was saying, “Hey, what weird crap can we make Bimbo do?” And man were they weird! So here’s a Halloween toon for you, to usher in the season!

I have to finish preparing my Halloween lesson before I go to bed. Those kids are gonna get their eyebrows scared off. Good morning to my friends in America and Oyasumi to my friends here.

Teaching and Screeching

So I’m a teacher now. Like that’s my actual job. I often forget, because I’ve done it so many times as a half job. I’ve been a camp counselor, a teaching intern, a substitute teacher, and some kind of baby watcher. So I’m very used to this kind of job, but I find it hard to fathom that I am now an actual paid-by-the-city teacher. A sensei even. Actually, since my paycheck comes from the city and not my school, I’m actually considered a public servant. Pretty cool, eh?

Even so, I sometimes don’t think of myself as a teacher, much less a sensei. Sensei (I’m told) literally means, “honorable master.” So as an “eigo no sensei” I am considered an honorable master of the English language. I like English a lot, and I studied it more than other kids in my high school, but I’m really no master of the language (as you can tell from this blog). Still comparatively speaking, I am a master in Japan. Just as any Japanese three-year old is a Japanese master to me.

There are a few things that are expected of every teacher. 1.) Teach the thing you’re hired to teach and 2.) keep the kids in line. Number one is not a problem. I speak English. I can wing it. Number two…that’s another story.

Every ALT has a predecessor, someone whose job they take over. This predecessor is supposed to answer all the questions specifically pertaining to your school. My pred (as the cool kids say) was a super nice girl named Christina. She answered all my questions, including my most burning one. “What are the kids like?”

“They’re nuts,” she said. “They basically run the school. And you’re in the biggest middle school in Shiga, so there’s around nine hundred of them.” She proceeded to tell me a number of stories about her lovely children, which really scared me up a notch. I’d dealt with rowdy American kids, but not very well. How was I going to deal with nine hundred kids who didn’t speak my language?

This began to bother me. It bothered me at home, on the drive to Maryland, during pre-departure orientation, on the plane, in the hotel, at Tokyo orientation, in my dreams, and up until I moved into my new apartment. That’s where I met my next-door and upstairs neighbors, Katie and Nikki.

Now, if you haven’t met Katie and Nikki, they’re great. The end,

So the three of us went to an izakaya during my first week there. Nikki is now on her second year, and Katie is on her third collective year in Japan. So they know what they’re talking about. I asked outright, “What should I do about crazy kids who don’t listen to me? What if they can tell I’m a dork?”

“Japanese kids are just like American kids,” they said. “They want to be cool and want to show you they’re cool. So all you have to do is outcool them, which isn’t hard because you’re foreign.” Be cool. I could do that. Besides, no one knew me here, so I just had to hide the fact that I was a nervous buffoon. Piece of cake.

“Also,” Katie added, and this is important. “Don’t be afraid to freak out the squares. If the kids want to act a fool, just act a fool bigger than them. That’ll shut them up.”

“And,” Nikki added to the add. “Be yourself.” Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. I had to act cool.

So with those words ringing in my ear chasms, I headed to my first day of school. On the bike ride to school I got nervous. I arrived, parked my bike, and turned around. It was a sea of baby-type Japanese kids. Everywhere. Some looked at me. Some laughed. Most whispered. “Be cool,” I thought. “They don’t know you’re not cool.”

“Sup, dogs?” I said. No response, of course. It didn’t matter. I was emanating hipness.

Strutting down the hall, I felt like Sister Whoopi Goldberg when she first walked into that inner-city school. Kids were doing whatever they wanted, however they wanted. Many kids wore street clothes instead of their uniforms. One kids was punching a wall for unknown reasons. It was time to kick the coolness up a notch.

I did some funky fresh nodding to the kids that passed by. “Hey. Sup, yo. Morning, sucka.” They didn’t know what I was saying, but I sure was cool. “Whatevs,” said my strut. “Holla back,” said my one raised eyebrow. And into the teacher’s room. Safe among other nerds. All I had to do was keep up this cool act for two hundred fifty plus days and I’d be home free.

During the morning assembly, all nine hundred kids gathered in the gym for the start of the second term. I had to introduce myself in Japanese by reading a speech Katie wrote for me. But I had to make sure I was cool! This was going to be at least eight hundred kids’ first impression of me. Cool factor five, engage!

And it was cool. They called me up to the stage. I was nervous, but I showed no sign as my sock-covered feet nonchalantly bounced up the polished steps. I sashayed over to the podium. I slapped my speech down and proceeded to be the Will Smith of Japanese speeches. Inside, every organ was pumping every juice possible to keep my nervousness from spontaneously throwing my body into a frenzied panic. But outside, I was like John Wayne eating a hot dog.

The speech was done. No problem. My legs were shaky but I headed offstage. It should be noted here that God has an interesting way of teaching us things. This was a particularly funny way, in my opinion.

I made for the first step and my shaky, nervous, sock-covered foot slipped off the top step. Never one to be the outsider, my other foot decided to slip too.

CHUNKITA-CHUNKITA-CHUNKITA-BOOMF! went my hiney down each stair and onto the floor. I sat in complete shock. “It’s okay, Michael,” I thought. “You can salvage this. Just jump up and say ‘ta-da’ or do something funny. Ready, go!”

I stood up. I looked at the silent crowd. My voice squeaked, “merp…” Silence. I shuffled off to the side wall, where I prayed to find some asbestos to choke myself with. But the building was up to code. Crap.

Back in the teacher’s room, I prepared for my first lesson. It was the self-intro lesson using the videos I had in my last blog. I had been really excited about seeming cool up to that point, but now I was deflated. I couldn’t be cool. Everyone saw me for what I was. A clumsy square. A Doofy Von Chessclub, if you will. And nothing was going to change that. The kids would never respect me and I would never be able to settle their rowdy behinds with an outcool-type nature. Epic. Fail.

But, no matter how much I wanted to crawl into crisper drawer of the staff refrigerator and die, they were still paying me. And I had to earn my keep. So I schlepped off to my first class ever.

I arrived early to set up the video, load my powerpoint, and do other type things. I observed the class and the class observed me. In training, we were told that to control a class, you just have to control the rowdiest student. If he is in line, the rest of the class will be. It wasn’t long before I spotted the rowdiest student, mostly because he was standing on his desk, yelling obscenities.

The teacher arrived and I started my lesson. The lights went down and I turned on my computer to show my first slide. “Hello, everyone,” I said meekly. “My name is…” YELL! The rowdy kid yelled something in Japanese and the class burst in smatters of giggling. This was total teh suck, and it was only first class! The one country where it’s assumed I’m cool because I’m American, and I blow the ruse by falling off the stage! Why couldn’t I catch I break?

Then some words rang in my head. “Freak out the squares. Be yourself.” I looked around the room. They were just kids. I looked at Mr. Rowdy. I couldn’t outcool him, but I could definitely outcrazy him. If there was one thing I was sure of, I could outcrazy any kid any time.

I stood up straight. Meekly I announced, “My name is…” I clicked to my first slide. This picture:

























“MICHAEL!” I yelled, sporting the same pose in the picture. “Wicka-what, ducklings!” The class laughed, but the rowdy kid laughed loudest. I clicked to my next slide, a mishmash of Americana. “I am from AMERICA. America’s got planes!”

A kid in the back mimicked me, “Pureinsu!” I threw some crazy at him.

“That’s right, I said PLANES!” I pointed to him with a hand behind my ear.

“Pureinsu!” he yelled back.

“That’s right, y’all! Every child like planes.” I moved on.

Throughout the rest of the lesson, I yelled things, danced around, high-fived entire aisles, and covered kids’ heads with maps of the U.S. They liked the videos too. All in all, it went over pretty well. Some kids came up to talk to me afterward, and even the rowdy kid talked to me a little bit.

I’ve been doing that in every class ever since. Most classes it works really well, and some it doesn’t. The important thing is I’m having fun. I’m not scared of what a bunch of junior high kids think of me anymore, because whether they like or not, I’m going to be my crazy foreign self around them. Most of them like me and some of them don’t, but thems are the breaks.

In the end, I’m really happy about falling down the stairs. If I hadn’t, I might still be trying to keep up that cool crap, and I know now that it never would have worked. The kids expect cool, but they don’t expect crazy, and that’s what keeps them from thinking they can get away with stuff. And every so often, I’ll be in class or at my desk and I just start laughing. Silently at first, but then noticeably louder. Because falling down in front of nine hundred kids at once is just plain hilarious. Especially if you’re trying too hard to be cool.















And here's my Halloween board! Sorry if I seem pushy about showing this to people, but it took a long time. And I actually like it, unlike most things I make.

Don't Lie, Stupid!

Japan is a place of image. Everything you are is summed up in how you act, what you say, and how you look. Are you in or are you out? Are you part of the group or are you a cast-asideable loner who no one should associate with? I am already at a major disadvantage, in that I am white as a snow weasel. My very appearance screams, “I laugh at your group mentality! I am Individuo, great and terrible! HA-HA-HA!”

One of the first phrases I remember reading was “Be sure to [do thing] to show you’re part of the group.” Almost every essay and cultural point JET gave us had something about showing you’re part of the group.

I, as a person, am incredibly self-conscious and always worry about what others think about me. This is a deep personal flaw I am working on, but you can be sure it was not resolved when I was getting ready to come here. So that fear, coupled with that advice, birthed the indefatigable notion of “Whatever you do, don’t screw up!”
And so it was settled. In everything I did, I would show the Japanese people I lived and work with that despite my appearance I wanted to be part of the team. Go Team Nihon! Woo-hoo! This was a bit more difficult than I thought it would be.

On my first day in Shiga, I had to dress up in a suit and tie and meet my superiors. This was it. After a week of dawdling seminars and talking to non-Shigans I would never see again (except Erik), I was finally going to meet the people I wanted to impress. My bosses. Unfortunately, the first thing they ever saw me do was give an introduction in Japanese that I had written nary ten minutes before. So I basically just looked like a nervous, mumbly fool. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t part of the team. Even nervous, bumbly fools have their parts to play. Like Billy on the Power Rangers or George Harrison. Yes, despite this I could still be part of the team. I just had to prove it to them.

In the car, I began speaking with Atsuko, my supervisor (who is awesome), with my Board of Education Supervisors listening in. I established my interest in Japan and talked about how beautiful everything was. “What a beautiful lake!” I would say. “Oh! What beautiful green trees!” I would remark. “Oh, what a beautiful crossing guard! His face is so taut!” Yes, I was well on my way. I just had to not screw up for another three hundred fifty-four days and I would be home free.

“So what sports do you play?” asked Yamada-sensei, the gray-haired man beast who sat in the front seat. Sports are very important in Japan and playing them is even more important. Being part of a team shows you’re a part of the team. So I scrambled for an answer.

“Basketball!” I blurted out. ‘You idiot!’ I thought. ‘You haven’t played basketball since the third grade. And you sucked then too.’

“Oh! You could join the Basketball team!” Atsuko remarked.

“Oh that would be great!” I lied. Now I was in it. Okay, don’t panic. There’s an easy way out of this. Smash your tibia with a hammer. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Problem solved, but no more lying. I knew I couldn’t keep lying.

“Do you like baseball?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Oh! Who is your favorite team?” I scrambled to think of a name. Any name. ‘Just use an American team name. They won’t know it and the conversation will be over.’

“The Atlanta Braves,” I lied, saying the only team name I knew.

“Oh, they’re not so good this season,” remarked Yamada-sensei. I began to sweat. “Who’s your favorite player?” I needed a good lie to get out this one or I was really screwed. As I made up each word, my English became more smattered and incoherent.

“Oh…uh…” I mumbled. “Well, you see, they are my favorite team, but I don’t watch them anymore…” Yamada-sensei looked at me with the expression of someone who suspects non team-members. “Because when I was young, my best friend loved the Braves…and we…were…went to games…on TV…a lot. But he moves away…so with his…leaving…also he took my…spirit of baseball.”

Yes, friends and relatives, that is no exaggeration. I actually used the phrase “Spirit of Baseball.” Even to a non-native speaker, that has to sound pretty stupid. And I knew he thought it was stupid because he said, “Oh,” and then nothing else for a good fifteen minutes.

So after these two incidents in the car you would think I’d have learned. After all, that’s what mistakes are for. That’s what human beings do. We learn from our mistakes and grow into healthy individuals. I, however, don’t have the intelligence of a human being. Maybe the intelligence of a hamster at best, and even then, the hamster in the class for special hamsters.

At my school, I made friends with one of the English teachers. His name is Mano-sensei. Mano-sensei likes me. I talk to Mano-sensei. On the day of our enkai (big drinking party with ALL the teachers), Mano-sensei asked me a very serious question. “Do you like magic?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. Who doesn’t like magic?

“Do you do any magic tricks?” As a child, I never studied magic tricks. I never got magic books out of the library so I could wow my friends. In fact, I’m not even certain I’ve ever seen a magic trick performed. So of course I said, “Yes.”

My mind snapped at me. ‘Did you learn nothing?’ I thought. ‘That was a lie and you know it.’

“Calm down, mind,” I thought back. “He’ll never know. That’s the beauty of lying. You never get caught.”

Night came. I was relaxing with my fellow teachers and doing my best to ingratiate myself with their drunken selves. I laughed, I cried, I ate squid. Maybe I was finally showing I was part of the team. Soon, our MC of the night came up to my seat. “We’re ready for your magic trick,” he said. I almost choked on my squid.

“What?” I replied.

“Mano-sensei said you had a magic trick to show us.” I looked at Mano-sensei. He gave me the thumbs up.

“Right. I’m a magician,” I mindlessly said as I searched the annals of my brain for any trace of a magic trick. Nothing. I tried to refuse and say I was too embarrassed. No dice. Everyone had heard I could do magic and I was going to do it.

In this, my darkest moment, a moment I had created for myself mind you, God shuffled his feet along the carpet of Heaven and shocked my brain into remembering a trick. It was a dumb, dumb trick one of my friends showed me in Middle school, but it was all I had. “I’ll need a paper towel,” I said.

In five minutes, they had a paper towel for me and I stood up in front of everyone. Half of the eyes were on me. The other half were drunk. I had that going for me. I placed my cup on the table. “Hello everyone. Tonight, I am going to make this cup…disappear.” Mild response. I covered the cup with the paper towel, making sure to mold the towel into the form of the glass. I began to chant with my hands over the glass.

“It’s not working. I need a volunteer to perform the magic dance.” Japanese people hate dancing by the way, especially forcibly in front of others. At least I assume so, because the lady I picked REALLY did not want to dance. But I made her do it anyway. This part was crucial. In the dance I had to knock the glass off the table in an accidental fashion, and pick up only the glass-formed paper towel. It couldn’t be too difficult. I knock things over all the time.

I began the dance. Arms up, arms down, arms to the side and…I hit the glass!! But it didn’t fall off the table. Everyone started murmuring. “That was close. One more time.” Arms up, arms down, arms to the side…I hit the glass and…it didn’t fall off again! The sober people began to wish they were drunk. The drunken people began talking louder. “One last time!” Arms up, arms down, arms to the SIDE! I back-handed the glass dangerously off the table. Thank God it didn’t break.

“Oh no! My glass! I’m so clumsy.” I picked up the glass-formed paper towel and set it on the table. “The magic is complete aaaaaaaaand HA!” I smashed the towel down with my fist!

“Oooooooh!” exclaimed the one sober lady who was still paying attention. At least it impressed somebody. I proceeded to give my speech about how I was so glad to be working with such great teachers and to be on the team (wink wink), but no one was paying attention at that point. And speeches lose their impact when you have to stop and wait for it to be translated into your language.

I sat down, only slightly embarrassed, but very sure I would never lie to Japanese people again. At least not without immediately correcting myself, lest I am forced to conduct a symphony for the Prime Minister.

The point is, I noticed I lie. It’s a bad habit born out of insecurity and wanting to be accepted by people completely different than me. Maybe you can chalk it up to culture shock, but I really don’t want to let myself slide on this one. Lying is lying no matter the reason, and I don’t want to be an untruthful person. Besides, it’s way too much work. I spent a lot of time at my job trying to impress the teachers and students with things I really couldn’t do. But once I got tired of that and started acting crazy at school, I had a lot more fun. I’ll elaborate on the craziness later.

For now, I must go to bed. Thanks to all who made it to the end of this post. I actually have my self-intro videos up on Vimeo if you want to take a look at them. They’re password protected mostly because I don’t want just any random fool getting introduced to me on the internet. So I assume if you’re here it’s because I know you. But if I don’t know you, then don’t use the password “ghibli” to watch my videos. I’m off to sleep. Tomorrow it’s off to Osaka!

Me:

Me from Joe Smith on Vimeo.

My Family:

Family from Joe Smith on Vimeo.

My House:

My House from Joe Smith on Vimeo.

North Carolina:

North Carolina from Joe Smith on Vimeo.

To Begin

It’s cold. Not ridiculously freezing yet, but from what I understand about Shiga winters, I’ll soon be unable to do anything without cursing the Japanese idea of not insulating your home. But not yet. Mada, as they say. Still getting chilly, though. The nights are the chilltastic, as are the mornings. I’ve gotten to the point that I can do push-ups with my nipples. And that’s the sign.
Because it was devilishly hot when I got here. Like an ungodly amount of sweat poured from my body each day. At least enough to hydrate a baby calf that drinks only sweat. I was a sweat monster. Sure, the Japanese people complain about the heat and talk about how much they can’t stand it, all the while wearing heavy jeans, longsleeve shirts, and snow caps just for fashion’ sake. Yet they don’t sweat. Or not nearly as much as I do. And I was practically naked compared to them. But I digress.
The point is: Hot then. Cold now. It’s been a while since I got here and I haven’t written a lick. Granted, I’ve been busy. All my life I’ve said, “Oh well, I’ve been busy,” but this time I mean it. I know what busy is. I know what having a job really means, and why the majority of people hate their lives. I don’t hate my life because I don’t let the job consume me, but if I did (and I could) I would hate my life. Doing nothing but work. Boo, sir. Boo, I say.
So what have I been doing? What took me so long? What is my life like? These are all questions I intend to answer in due time. Some today, some later. Sadly, I can’t embellish on everything. The past month is past and hardly anything I did in the beginning is fresh in my mind. Sorry. I remember needing toothpaste. That’s about it. Most of what I write is going to be what’s happened recently, and less of a point by point analysis of my journey. Still, to fill in the gaps, here is a rundown of everything I did as best I can remember.

I. Plane Ride
a. I hate plane rides.
II. Tokyo Orientation
a. Seminars, which taught me mostly nothing.
III. Meeting our Bosses
a. We had to give a self-intro in Japanese. I screwed mine up.
IV. The Drive to Hikone
a. My three bosses drove me to my apartment. This was the first time I made a Japanese person laugh.
V. Meeting the Neighbors
a. My two neighbors, Katie and Nikki, introduced themselves to me. They are probably the most valuable resources in my life right now.
VI. Learning to Cook
a. I did that.
VII. Learning to Go to Bed Early
a. Not so much
VIII. Construction Paper
a. I learned my master medium.
IX. My First Day of School
a. I resolved to show everyone I was super cool. Then I fell off the stage during my speech.
X. Teaching
a. If you want to call it that.
XI. Pasukon Panch!
a. My computer breaks.
XII. Spiraling Depression
a. Without computer my life turns to crying.
XIII. Crayon Therapy
a. A lack of computer led me to seek crayon drawings as release.
XIV. Sports Day
a. More on that later.
XV. Studying Japanese
a. Turns out it’s really hard.
XVI. Finding a Church
a. It wasn’t that hard actually.
XVII. Dealing with my Children
a. I laugh to keep from crying.
XVIII. Getting into the Groove
a. Trying to enjoy work as much as possible, while maybe teaching something some English.

So there’s that. Now think how much effort I saved by not embellishing and blathering forth about every boring little topic. From now on, it will just be little updates on my life and maybe an anecdote or two. Sound boring? It will be. Just like every other, “Oh boy I’m in Japan now and everyone read about my life!” blog. So really this is for friends and family who want to keep up with my life. I can’t promise it will always be an enjoyable read, but I can promise it will always be about me, which is a good or bad thing depending on who you are.

So goodnight, and the next post will contain actual information.



This is my construction paper board I made for school. My thumb went numb cutting the construction paper.