Everyday Language in Written Form

Recently read the book コンビニ人間 (Convenience Store Woman) by 村田沙耶香 (Sayaka Murata) based on the recommendation of a dear friend (who has become a main source of entertainment recommendations, along with my beloved Broseph.) Read it first as an English translation. Read it again in the original Japanese. Utterly incredible piece of literature. More on that later.

After grad school ended, reading habits evaporated like Everclear forgotten overnight in an uncovered shot glass (trust me on that one.) Heaviest reading became extended dialog boxes in RPGs for a while. Same lack of appetite for language study. Studied superficial details of numerous languages over the years, and have seriously studied nine languages including my mother tongue. Formally studied (in a classroom) English, French, German, Japanese, Mandarin Chinese, and Spanish. Informally studied (for the lulz) Modern Greek, Modern Hebrew, and Russian. Of all these languages, can only hold an ordinary conversation in English and Japanese. Could do self-introductions and possibly conduct simple exchanges in German, French, Chinese, Russian, and Spanish. Can ask for cheese and grapefruit juice in Hebrew (not terribly useful, but sounds cool as hell said aloud.) In Greek, can say “it’s all Greek to me” (meta comedy gold, right there.) 

As previously mentioned, reread コンビニ人間 in the original Japanese. Making it the first, full novel I’ve ever read in another language. After over a decade in Japan, and twenty years of Japanese study: finally read a whole goddamn book that was not 漫画 (a graphic novel). Previously tried to read 坊ちゃん and 銀河鉄道の夜. Both written in the Japanese equivalent of Victorian English. A well-intentioned but truly terrible idea. Didn’t finish either one.

But コンビニ人間? Done and done. Reading the English translation took a single morning. Anyone near me while reading it probably heard an audible ‘gulp’ at the finish. Could not put it down. However, reading the original Japanese took about a month. A humbling experience, by comparison. Even though the novel is just everyday language in written form, still took time. Had to repeatedly look up phrases used in daily conversations because the written form didn’t register immediately, even in context. Had to look up 挨拶 (greeting) three separate times. Know the phrase, but forgot the characters used to write it. The experience felt like running in sand against the wind. Same path, same purpose, but each step drawing far more time and energy than usual.

But the book itself? Spoiler alert: it fucking rocks. The story follows 古倉恵子 (Keiko Furukura) through her life working at a convenience store. Based upon details of life and her childhood, she is probably what has been referred to in pop psychology as an “everyday psychopath.” Devoid of true empathy, only able to blend in by mimicking others, but not an actual danger to others, Ms. Furukura finds her place in the world working at a convenience store where there exists a manual on how to function. In a genius bit of writing: Ms. Furukura is the most rational character in the whole book. Everyone else is bothered to distraction about the idea of “normalcy” and whatever that compels them to do. The novel deals extensively with themes of fitting in and pressure from family and friends to conform. A recurring idea in the book is how if you don’t seem to fit in, others who do “fit in” feel fully entitled to question you and interfere in your life. In Ms. Furukura’s case, this is compounded by the gross misogyny in Japanese society. Why does she continue to work at the convenience store? why is she single? why doesn’t she have a full-time job? why isn’t she thinking about children? etcetera ad infinitum. A woman who doesn’t want children is, of course, open to criticism even from random strangers in my own culture. In Japan, however, it’s even worse. Such a critical life choice should be exactly nobody’s business but one’s own. Furthermore, as someone who presents as male, exactly nobody has ever asked me about this or challenged my choice one way or the other if it came up in conversation. So there’s that. But that’s another story,

In any event, heartily recommend the book. Also, started paying more attention to all the workers at convenience stores. Lots and lots of unknown or untold stories there.

Demon Chatter

Time marches on. Time waits for no one. Time serves as the river of the universe. As the old quote, variously (mis)attributed, goes: "time is what keeps everything in the universe from happening at once." Much time has passed since last writing in this blog. Much water under the bridge. Much life lived... perhaps wasted? Don't rightly know. However, the demons in my head know. They're glad to share, too. しょうがないね。

At the beginning of the current plague (pandemic, whatever) vowed to create something. Didn't happen. Got separated from family for over four months. Family got stuck in the 'States when Japan enacted a travel ban for high risk countries (i.e. the 'States.) Hell.. well over a quarter million dead there at the time of writing.

In the empty house, with so much time... did very little, really. (Amazing to learn how many waking moments normally consist of childcare.) Stayed in bed, for a day or three sometimes. Job shifted to an online platform. Set an alarm to wake up for five minutes, upload a lesson document, and go right the fuck back to sleep. Played PlayStation so goddamn much, actually got Platinum Trophies for three different games. Fixed a few things in the house. Ate takeout pizza and Indian at a statistically improbable rate. Did nothing creative. Nothing. Anxiety and depression feasted upon my time like rabid jackals tearing fresh meat from bones. Family okay? Gonna die of a strange, new illness? Work gonna return to normal? Anything gonna return to normal?

Family got back okay, thank providence. Now comes the demon chatter. "Why didn't you do more with all that time?" Indeed, why not? Because crippling anxiety and depression. The demons don't buy that. Not for a minute. They go on and on. しょうがないね。

Back in the office. Back doing work on actual, tactile paper again. Back to the cycle, which now includes additional details like masks, social distancing, hand sanitizer, and extra handwashing. Not a problem. Don't need to trim the mustache as much. A walrus lurks beneath this mask. Goo goo goo joob.

But the demons move on to other things. They dangle unavailable desires like great golden carrots on sticks. They mock this aging carcass. They offer unsolicited reminders of what has become undoable in light of current responsibilities and relationships. Things undoable in light of available time. Both time available in a day... and time remaining in life.

Looking ahead, can see a path obscured by haze.

Smoke from the dumpster fire of my next terrible decision?

Mist rising from the River Styx? Who can say with certainty...

Death waits for no one when the preordained time arrives.

But yet it waits for us all in the end, does it not?

Oh what I would do if I could, but I can't. しょうがないね。

Got the blog, anyway! 

Dark Red Tape

Trying to do better by the world.

Trying to reduce waste through various methods.  Order only as much food as necessary.  Avoid wasteful nonsense such as disposable razors and bottled water.   Use things until they break.  Try to mend things before replacing them outright.  Buy higher-quality products that last longer to begin with.

Voting with the wallet: patronizing businesses which exhibit greater social and environmental responsibility.  These businesses often have higher price tags because it costs real money to avoid things like exploiting workers living in poverty... especially workers in developing countries.  Luckily the household coffers suffice to support this endeavor.  Not everyone's do.

Another bugbear: plastic bags.  Especially here.  Japan has a tradition of meticulous wrapping techniques for gifts and merchandise called 風呂敷 (furoshiki). That, however, entailed reusable cloth. Marry that tradition with a modern culture of disposable packaging, and rampant, unrepentant baggery ensues.  Double bags.  Bags in bags.  Bag upon wretched bag.  Oh, the baggery.

To combat this, one may carry a reusable エコバッグ (eco bag) to use in lieu of the endless plastic bags.  However, fastidious and over-eager clerks encounter difficulty when asked to forego the bags.  Duty compels them.  Protocol compels them.  Red tape compels them... to tape.  They tape everyfuckingthing.  A large purchase of multiple, small items leads to store tape on each and every item.  This leads to cobwebs on clothes, irked glances from patrons in line, and unintended growth of a long white beard.

Would it kill you to just put the shit in the bag, please?  Pretty please?

Spring Broken

Working in a school gives access to a good vacation schedule.  Taking time off during normal classes presents difficulties, but the prescheduled vacation time makes it worth it.  Well, as long as one isn't a workaholic... or a sad robot who cannot differentiate employment from slavery (and probably works for a workaholic boss).  Not this carbon blob.  No sad robot here.  Vacation time!

Granted, having a toddler in the house changes the nature of vacations.  Sleeping in no longer occurs.  Down time becomes punctuated by childcare in its myriad guises.  But no problem.  The toddler in question was 100% intentional.  This makes the childrearing perhaps a little easier.  It's difficult to imagine dealing with all these things except caring for an unwanted child.  Slightly mind boggling, but it happens.  Oh, it happens.  But not here.

Still the little monkey takes a considerable mid-day nap and goes to bed at 20:00.  After that, Fallout time!  Released a while ago but a new DLC just came out.  Boo-ya!!

Work Related Injury

Presenteeism: a portmanteau word describing the act of working or attending classes despite being ill.  Manifold theories exist, as do various causes.  Scholars who study workplace dynamics generally agree presenteeism adversely affects productivity.  The Wikipedia article gives a decent topic overview and provides links to academic work on the subject.  The article is available in several languages... but not Japanese.  Not a thing, here.

There exists ample pressure at work in Japan to put in absurdly long hours to no observable purpose.  Workplaces measure work by the time spent at the office, perhaps as a display of company loyalty.  They do not judge each other on actual production.  Everyone seems very, very busy.  Busy, indeed... but not terribly productive (a common side effect of workaholism). The beehive thrums with purposeful buzzing, but the honey runs disproportionately thin compared to the amount of work which appears to occur.

Japan has a phenomenon called 過労死 (karoshi) which literally means "overwork death."  Perhaps, the ultimate work-related injury.  It happens a lot more here than in other industrialized countries.  People just don't know when to go home.  Reasons abound.  Fear of coworkers' judgement (especially senior coworkers).  Fear of reprimand from above. Fear of appearing disloyal to the company.  For the men folk, fear of going home to face their families.  Fear of rush hour trains.  Fear of fear itself.  Who knows, really.

This carbon blob, however, goes home at a normal time.  Some coworkers don't like that.  Don't care.  Have a son to take care of.  Probably disliked by most coworkers, anyway.  Which, back to presenteeism, probably why three years have passed without calling in sick.  Sick as a dog?  Work anyway.  Why?  Because fuck 'em, that's why!

Plus, gotta feed the student loan beast.
学費貸付の鬼に餌をやらなくちゃ。

Shall eat yonder, greener grass... thence barf forthwith.

Have a literal roomful of toys for the wee one.  Yet what does he yearn for?  The bold primary colors of the oversize Lego blocks?  The wee plastic turtle on wheels with a transparent shell wherein tiny plastic balls bounce around as it rolls?  Perhaps the brightly-colored plastic balls which come apart in halves and can be fit one within the other in the manner of Matryoshka dolls.

Nay, he yearns for none of these.

Instead, he yearns for things in the hands of nearby adults.  Bottles of carbonated beverage.  Books with easy-to-tear pages.  Smartphones.  CUPS OF HOT COFFEE.  It matters not.  You has: him wants.  Preferably something that could cause vomiting if drunk/eaten, scald if touched, leave a mark of some kind, inadvertently contact emergency services, stain, or require costly repairs/replacement when drooled upon and/or smashed.

Friends with children in university have intimated that this pattern continues almost indefinitely.

Actual Human Poo

Funny thing about having children: it provides a crash course in crap.  Literal crap.

(Warning: appetite spoilers follow.)

Babies who nurse produce a mild, yellow excrement redolent of Grey Poupon (no pun intended).  Oddly enough, the end product smells a tad like movie theater popcorn.  Probably, that results from milk having been exposed to acid, with remnant undigested fats rounding out the buttery bouquet.  (Of course, individual results may vary.)

Anyway, changing many much diapers enlightens one some.  Brings one down to earth.  Closer to the soil, anyway.  As a friend once said: today's dessert becomes tomorrow's poop.  True enough... and very Zen.   Circle of life, or something.  Now the wee one has begun eating solid food.

With the entrance of solid foods comes the exit of a different kind of excrement: a whole new number two, if you will.  Solid food brings a revolution to intestinal flora and a completely new set of metabolic by-products (occasionally including whole, undigested vegetables... mmm.)  Not the cute little baby poop anymore.  With the recent addition of meats and fish to his diet, diapers arrive brimming with the real McCoy: actual human poo.

The little shits grow up so fast.

Food Flakes for the Ego Fish.

The end of another school year has come.

Students fill out a questionnaire in the final class (an independent one: not mandated by the institution).  It has a number of questions regarding what the student feels they can or can't do (e.g. "I can introduce myself in English").  The same questions appear on the questionnaire distributed at the beginning of the year.  Those same papers go back to the students after they fill out the year-end ones so they can compare their answers.  It serves as a very tangible benchmark for improvement.  Such "can-do" lists have gained much popularity in language-learning circles.

The final questionnaire also includes open-ended questions regarding what they liked about the class, what they didn't like about the class, and any general comments they have.  The questionnaires have the students' names on them.  The lack of anonymity may curtail some honesty.  However, the answers seem relatively frank to the untrained eye.  Students regularly report things they didn't like.

Reading the answers to the "what did you like about the class" section of the questionnaire invariably serves as food flakes for the ego fish.  The students make such heartwarming comments about what they enjoyed.  Do the children just say what they believe the teacher wants to hear?  Dunno.  Is it all just sunshine for the bum?  Probably.  That doesn't diminish the warm fuzzies it generates.

The students make these comments even before they get the parting gifts for the class: souvenir bags with hand-drawn radish people doing adorable shit (among other things).  Gotta love kids.

Rubber Baby Rugby Bumpers

Balancing childcare and work always presents a challenge... even when one lives in a culture conducive to childrearing.  In some ways, Japan's culture facilitates childcare.  In others, it does not.  In recent years, the birthrate in Japan has been falling steadily.

Japan boasts low-cost, public day-care.  However, there exist waiting lists and an elaborate point system for potential attendees.  Resistance from nimby neigbors who regard daycares as a noisy nuisance stalls the construction of new facilities that might alleviate the burden on extant centers.  And the birthrate falls.

Japan still suffers from a chronic expectation that new mothers will quit working and stay home for all time (i.e. give up their lives).  Company policies, written and unwritten, encourage this.  Friends, family, and society at large place enormous pressure on women to fall in line with this malarkey.  In a culture where one's nakama (仲間）attain virtual godhood in one's life, peer pressure and social ostracism can compel comparable to the threat of violence.  Yet, oddly enough, the birth rate continues to fall.

National insurance in Japan affordably covers many, many things.  However, it doesn't cover the uncomplicated delivery of a baby.  Prenatal care, yes.  A cesarian section, yes.  Neonatal care, yes.  Children's healthcare in general, yes.  Just not the delivery.  Also, many hospitals don't offer epidurals or other pain-management for pregnant women.  It seems female suffering (avoidable or otherwise) receives a full endorsement from this patriarchal society.  It expects women to give up career and selfhood, bear children in Old-Testamenty pain, and struggle with the availability of daycare services.  The birthrate continues to fall... and some people actually have the wherewithal to wonder "why?" aloud in public forums.

On another note, most other teachers at work put in absurd hours doing much administrative paperwork of little observable worth.  They devalue an erstwhile rewarding education career into depressing wage slavery.  Some of these "fathers" rarely see their children.  Can't play that game.  Forget it.  Anyway, for a foreign employee, advancing up the administrative ladder just doesn't happen.  Therefore this carbon blob ensures that work ends at quittin' time.  No promotions to fret about, so go home and see the family.  Then the baby gets handed off like an adorable, little rugby ball so the better half can go to work.  Just lucky this arrangement works, in light of the daycare situation.  Really, wouldn't have it any other way.  Toss that baby over here, would you kindly?

Ye Cavorting, Two-Headed Beastie

Now that the baby of the house is a whopping three months old (and a truly whopping six kilos plus), sorties in the baby carrier are a regular occurrence.  Trips to the store, trips to get take-away parent-kibble, and trips just cavorting hither, thither, and yon.

Get some interesting looks about town.  For one thing, a father alone with a child remains a somewhat unusual sight in Japan.  Gender roles are highly polarized hereabouts.  Women are expected to quit working when the first child comes along and embrace housewifery.  Then men spend all their time at work.  All their damn time.  According to OECD statistics, working fathers in Japan spend an average of twenty minutes per day with their children.  Women become, in essence, sole caregivers.  A by-product of this is that fathers are regarded as domestically incompetent.  This is changing... albeit slowly.

Another reason folks look: absurdly caucasian baby.  Granted, one finds plenty of caucasians here married to Japanese folk.  Those children, however, don't often resemble "eugenics babies" from a 1920s county fair in Midwestern America.  Make no mistake, got nothing but love for the little guy.  Still, in this neck of the woods, his blue-eyed blondness borders on ridiculous.  Some folks go utterly agog over the little Ollie-ball when he opens those sapphire peepers.  Can understand their feelings.

Side note: constantly singing to the little bologna loaf during the walks.  Current favorites: "Angel Band" and "The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia."  With the cooler weather, often go forth wearing a sweatshirt over the baby carrier.  Upside: can zip the sweatshirt up over the baby for warmth.  Downside: the sweatshirt renders the harness invisible to anyone walking behind.  Thus, folk to the fore see a guy rocking and singing to a baby.  That gets a pretty positive reception: a lot of "kawaii!" and such.  Folk to aft see a guy, apparently, dancing around and singing to his own damn self.  That doesn't do so well in the polls.

Bologna Loaf.

Well, there's a baby in the house!  赤ちゃんだよ。

Bless the little bologna loaf.  That, by the by, is one of many great things from Bill Watterson's Calvin and Hobbes.  In one strip, Calvin's father quips: "I knew we'd made a mistake the minute I saw that little bologna loaf in the hospital bassinet."  Mind you, this baby is no mistake.  Quite the contrary.  It's just that referring to a human child as a "bologna loaf" is pretty goddamn funny.  Didn't fully understand the significance of the statement prior to seeing a newborn, caucasian infant nekkid in the aforementioned hospital bassinet.  It's an apt description.

Speaking of apt descriptions, there are many great words in Japanese.  One such is 親バカ.  It refers to parents utterly agog over their own child and that child's perceived capability, intelligence, excretion prowess, looks, or what-not.  The term literally means parent fool.  Never really understood the term until now.  It's definitely an apt description.  Baby is barely a month old, and all the handheld electronics in the house are already inundated with pictures of him widdle face.

But that aside, the summer is nigh over.  Thus, vacation is over.  This week both these fool parents go back to work.  Have some trepidation about working full time and caring for an infant, but it can't be helped... and nothing will do but to do it.  しょうがないだな〜。頑張ろう。

The little guy is worth it.  And then some.  Bless the little bologna loaf.

Cavorting Beasties...

Walking by the river t'other evening, the twilight disclosed all manner of plastic bags floating by in the water.  Seeing crap drifting downriver (not literal crap, mind you) is not unusual.  Mostly the usual suspects: the aforementioned plastic bags, empty food containers, wood chips, bottles and cans, and clap your hands.

Despite this, even by the time it empties into Tokyo Bay, Sumida River merely looks unsightly compared to some rivers elsewhere.  The Mississippi is pretty funky when it gets to Louisiana... and not Bootsy Collins funky, either.  Glow-in-the-dark, scratch-and-sniff biohazard funky.  とにかく、隅田川で泳ぐつもりない。

But back to the Sumida: having an eyeful of a bunch of discarded plastic bags of an evening... saw one of them twitch.  Paused to rub the peepers.  Looked again and found that all of the plastic bags were intermittently moving or pulsating or undulating.  Ew... hate that last word.  Of course these were not plastic bags, but jellyfish.  (Probably aurelia aurita to be precise).

Everything has its season, of course.  When jellyfish appear in large quantities, scientists refer to it as a "bloom".  Jellyfish blooms present a problem here and there.  The phenomenon can have disastrous effects for some.  A bloom of Nomura's jellyfish or 越前水母 (エチゼンクラゲ) managed to capsize a fishing trawler when a group (school? wiggle? flotilla? jar? dunno...) of them ended up in the boat's net.  Surprised?  It's less surprising upon learning this critter can grow to two meters in diameter with a mass of two hundred kilos.  Zoiks.

Anyway these otherworldly blobs are mighty interesting.  Wikipedia ho!
この不思議な塊は興味深いだな。ウィキペディアに行こう！

Status updaticus: a group of jellyfish is most precisely referred to as a "smack".

What the hell?  Who makes this stuff up?

Sheepskin Collection.

Life has proffered various bedevilments over the years.  C'est la vie.  Some of the more amusing (and predictable) include: unrequited love, smoking cessation, forays into the depths of madness, fishhook inadvertently stuck in hand, excessive alcohol consumption, and arguments with all and sundry.  In retrospect, however, few of life's bedevilments have proven more consistently annoying than post-secondary education.

After several stabs at college, finally snagged a BA (which was BS, really) in East Asian Studies.  Spent six semesters studying Chinese only to be fully unable to speak it in ordinary conversation.  Well, whatever.  Went to Japan, instead.

The acquisition of the BA led to a solemn pledge never to set foot in a university again... except maybe to use the toilet.  That vow, uttered in earnest before the dear and fluffy lord and at least two fellow meat bags, held up for exactly three years.  Then, it was off to grad school!

Contrary to expectations, grad school was actually pretty damned interesting.  Learned some genuinely useful shit.  Met some genuinely interesting folks.  Also met a few dispicable chowderheads.  Mostly interesting folks.  Became painfully aware, though, how unsuitable the life of an academia nut is (at least for this carbon blob).  While out at a restaurant with fellow grad students, one smarmy, pedantic little troll started blathering about going right on to get a doctorate.  Immediately made a solemn vow before the dear and fluffy lord not to pursue any additional, additional schooling.  Just can't do it.  Gold stars on the fridge to those who can do it.  Frankly, would rather use a hedgehog in lieu of toilet paper than get the third degree.

And speaking of paper: in the way back when, diplomas were printed on parchment, vellum, or sheepskin rather than paper.  Some people still refer to diplomas as sheepskins.  The practice continued here and there as a decadence.  One of the last places in the United States of America to confer actual sheepskin diplomas was Rice University in Houston, Texas.  They quit doing so in 2012, citing cost and handling problems.  Figures.  Electric lights made candles pretty goddamned expensive.  Works that way for many things.

At any rate, got an official letter from the grad school t'other  day saying that all the criteria for the masters program have been fulfilled.  Iz grajuit.  For realz.  This diploma will be made from paper, and not snipped from ovine hindquarters.

That said, shall now make (yet) another pledge before the dear and fluffy lord and all who read this blog: this meat bag is done collecting sheepskins.

Goddamn Windmills.

Japan has a chain of bargain stores called ドン・キホーテ (Don Quixote).  They're pretty neat.  They carry all manner of crap.  Soup to nuts.  "Tennis balls to glue," even.  The business describes itself as "discount shop and amusement".  That it is.

T'other day, went on the hunt for a particular kind of pillow intended as a gift.  Checked a coupla the usual stores and found them not.  Then had the thought: "why not Donk?"  Donk, by the by, is what Don Quixote calls itself for short.  It also has a mascot called ドンペン (Don Pen) who is a penguin.  Naturally.

Anyway, back to the thought: "why not Donk?"  (The longer this sojourn in Japan lasts, the weirder the internal monologue becomes.)  But never mind that... off to Donk!  Recently moved house, so the new area and its adjacent neighborhoods are not entirely familiar ground yet.  Thus, Google Maps seemed the best option.  Blue dotted line, ho!  行こうね。

Entered  「ドン・キホーテ」 into Google Maps, selected the pin in the area, and was off.  Streets rolled by, and neighborhoods rolled by.  About twenty minutes later, things started looking a little peculiar.  ちょっと変だな〜。 In fact, they started looking downright seedy (seedy for hereabouts, anyway).  Shop signs had more pink and purple than was typical, or strictly necessary.  Doorways disclosed smarmy looking men wearing bowties and ostentatiously shiny shoes.  These men either beckoned leeringly, or smirked like they were all in on some unknown joke.  Unknown to this hapless traveller, in any event.  It was reminiscent of old tales where other hapless travellers had inadvertently crossed over into the Land of Faerie where things became suddenly strange and the locals smirked at and mocked them until they crossed back into the mundane world.

On a side note, back in the mundane world, there was an area in Tokyo called 吉原 (Yoshiwara) during the Edo Period.  It was a notorious red-light district where many, many women went to an early grave.  According to the display at the Edo-Tokyo Museum, the average lifespan of a Yoshiwara girl was about 24 due to the horrid conditions.  The manga さくらん (Insanity) is set there and tells the story of a woman who is sold into prostitution by her impoverished family.  The manga has also been adapted into a film.  Both are worth a look.  The area that was Yoshiwara is now 千束 (Senzoku), and it still "boasts" a plethora of businesses in the sex trade.  More specifically, it is now 千束四丁目.  Upon closer inspection, it became clear that is exactly where Google Maps had led this hapless traveller.

On the heels of that realization came the thought: "son of a mother duck... better hurry on to Donk and get the hell outta here!"  So onward down the dotted blue line!  Followed it to its terminus, only to turn the last corner and find another sleazy club.

The name of the goddamned club was Don Quixote.

It was written exactly the same way as the store.  Looking back at the Google Maps entry (and reading all of it, this time) revealed the truth.  It was what it was.  Always read the label, kids.

何も買わなかった。
Needless to say... didn't buy anything.  Certainly no amusement.  Got some free angry, though.

Free to pursue other interests for the time being... *burp*

The grad course is at an end.  Had already heard they accepted the MA paper a coupla months ago.  However, got the news that actual graduation is going to occur.  卒業生だ。Iz grajuit.  Go figure.

This begs the question: what to do meow?  There is responsibility in the mail, but it isn't here yet.  Already working the kind of job grad school was intended to lead to.  Scholarship and academic writing have absolutely zero appeal at this point.  Maybe that will change in time... but not gonna bet any money on that.

What to do then?  Use Ockham's razor... to carve the roast beast.  It's time to eat, motherfuckers!  喰いましょう！

Indian food is endlessly wondrous.  Fish tikka, aloo pakora, mutton vindaloo... all of it heavenly.  The local Turkish kebab place with its pitas overflowing with delight.  Ramen?  Amen!  特に赤味噌ラーメンはめっちゃおいしいだな。 Ice cream has taken on a greater, almost spiritual meaning.

It is remotely possible that the current running regimen may not offset this overzealous consumption.  As a comedian once said: "gonna hafta call in fat for work tomorrow."  Oh, first world problems.

Walking... Dead.

Finally played the Walking Dead game.  Brilliant piece of entertainment.  Highly recommend it to all the carbon blobs out there.

Well, it's well written.  Incredibly sympathetic (and some unsympathetic) characters.  Characters with very human flaws.  The art is brilliant and, as I understand, very faithful to the original graphic novel.  漫画はちょうかっこいいと聞いた。

Warning, spoilers follow:

The main character, Lee, finds a second-grade girl named Clementine all by herself in a neighbourhood full of zombies.  He cares for and protects her.  Becomes a surrogate father, of sorts.  As the months pass, he takes her all the way to Savannah, Georgia to find her parents... or their remains.

They battle zombies, bandits, crazies, hunger, and all manner of human drama to get there.  They find the news they seek.  Then, at the very end, Lee is bitten and is becoming a zombie.  Little Clementine has to shoot him in the head to prevent him from turning.  As the main character, I had to talk her through it and tell her I love her and to be strong, etc.  The game (on this playthrough) ended with Clementine pulling the trigger.

It's just about the saddest thing I've seen in a game.  悲しいぃぃぃ。

I suppose making the ultimate sacrifice for a child's safety is an awfully good lesson to take away from a video game.  But fuuuuuuuuck!  Still, the Radish People done recommends.  Will surely play Season 2 if... survive... gratuitous melancholy.

Something Runneth Over

Just moved into a new apartment.  Same general area.  東京の下町。Once again by the river.  隅田川。「下町」literally means "downtown", but there's an additional nuance to it.  It's the old lower city, from when Tokyo was Edo.  It has a certain feeling to it, a certain je ne sais quoi, which some locals would judge me unable to appreciate as an outsider.  Fair enough.  俺は正確に江戸っ子じゃない。Truthfully I have said essentially the same thing to some visitors in regards to my hometown.  However, as outsiders, those same folks can appreciate my hometown objectively... a thing which I am incapable of doing.  Irony.  It's magically delicious.  Especially with potatoes.  皮肉じゃが。

そう... last week in the old place,  had toilet trouble.  おトイレ様のおなかが痛かった。 There was a poonami warning, and it became quickly apparent that there was no plunger in the house.  Lived in that apartment for five years.  五年間。In all that time, there was never a problem... until that last week.  After a very hasty trip to the store, a plunger was added to the home arsenal.  It's one of those things no one thinks of until the need arises.  But when the need arose, it rose swiftly: like buoyant, impending doom borne upon fetid waters.

とにかく、プランジャーを持っている。
Anyway, has plunger now.

Dropped Trou

T'other day, went to the dry cleaners.  At last.

The late Mitch Hedberg said "this jacket is dry clean only... so it's dirty."  Yeah, that about sums it up.  Only manage to haul the cleaning in once every six months or so.  Anyway, carted in the semiannual batch and, whilst happily traipsing along with suits slung o'er mah shoulder, a pair of pants slid off the hanger and fell on the ground.  Yup.  That's right.  I dropped my pants in the street.  Didn't even notice.

Picked up the dry cleaning a week later.  Upon arriving home, noticed this alarming state of pantslessness.  Ran back to speak to the dry cleaner, only to realize what had occurred.  Checked the receipts, and the trousers were never checked in.  Brought so many pieces, didn't even notice.  Crapital.

Now, walking around the neighborhood, every pair of gray trousers catches my eye: on businessmen, on homeless guys, on dogs... you name it.  Oh, the vexation.  Fully prepared to offer a handsome bounty if they turn up on a homeless man's cart.  No joke.

Pug Head Tilt

So, walking down the street t'other day, happened to glance over and see a red car.  Not just any red car.  It was a red formula-one-style race car.  More specifically, it  was a miniature red formula-one-style race car... much like those seen in parades being driven by Shriners.  But there was no Shriner at the helm of this little red race car.  No, no, no.  This little red race car was being driven by a cow.  Not an actual cow.  A human in a cow costume.

A thought came to mind: "何それ, where the fuck is my camera!?"  Well, actually that thought came second, fast upon the heels of the first thought: "son of a mother duck... fucking cow driving a goddamned little red race car!!"

じゃー, before furiously ransacking the port pants pocket for said phone, gave a quick glance to starboard.  And there, in a wee park, was a couple about my age (アラフォー).  But not just any couple.  No, no, no.  This couple was out for a constitutional with their pair of falcons.  Yes, falcons: ye bird of prey what knocketh yon sparrow from the air and feasteth merrily upon its giblets.  隼だった。The couple even had matching arm-guards to protect against the talons.  Just assuming they were a couple.  You know, circumstances.  Maybe falcons brought them together.  No clue.

In any event, no photograph was taken then and there.  Well, unless someone passing by snapped a picture of a foreign guy standing still in the middle of the sidewalk doing the pug head tilt.  That's all this author managed to do: stand frozen in derpitude pondering how none would ever believe.  Oh, Tokyo.

Fanboy.

やった... we finally have some fall weather.  And that means one thing: fan in the window.  I cannot get enough of this autumn air.  Especially at night.  I grew up in a relatively cold place.  One of my favorite things was falling asleep with my body wrapped in a blanket like a burrito while enjoying the cool air on my face.  There's a bit about that in Moby Dick.  Melville wrote: "to truly enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast."  If someone had told me a few years ago that I'd be quoting Melville in a blog someday, I probably would've shat myself laughing... and maybe called them an asshat.

But all that aside, my housemate is not the biggest fan of cold.  Thus, my (almost) forty-year-old ass can sometimes be found occupying a little "fort" in the curtains by the window.  I have my cool air and the fan in the window, yet the heavy drapes keep the rest of the apartment relatively warm.  It's a win-win situation, I think.  A rather creative solution, perhaps.  Well, I had to resort to using the curtains because our sofa has only two removable cushions.  That isn't nearly enough to build a proper fort with.