J-BLOGGERS - jibtv

by Anna Kunnecke 

  

If you want to cause a ruckus, you could always carry around a fake bag in Tokyo.  I had no idea.  Near-strangers will rush up to you and hiss anxiously, "Um, did you know that your bag...isn't real?"

There is an alley somewhere in California so famous for its designer knockoffs that it once featured in a Sex And The City storyline.  When my old buddy found herself in that fabled spot a few months ago, she grabbed me a satchel and sent it to me as a lark; she knew it would make me smile.  

The thing is, I had been wishing for a new bag.  And this one is black and soft and slouchy and has nice shiny silver hardware on it.  It can be folded small and chic or opened up to hold great piles of stuff, and the handles are soft and forgiving on tired shoulders.  I took a little shine to it.  

For the record, I am the proud owner of a legitimate leather reticule with a venerable French name on it, and it was expensive and beautiful and worth every penny.  (Even though I paid in yen.)  I've used it every day for nearly four years now, and it's a bit battered but still elegant and functional.  I walked into the store several months pregnant and plunked down a wad of cash for the lizard-embossed taupe rectangle that would serve as briefcase, diaper bag, and everything in between.  It was a poignant rite of passage, to buy myself something both substantial and decadent with money I'd earned myself.  

But four years later, I'm ready for a little change.  So I just threw my shiny new impostor over my shoulder one day, not thinking of anything other than the fact that it would look hot with my shoes.  It attracted rather more attention than I expected.  Friends looked askance.  "What's up with the bag?  Where did you get it?" was a polite way of saying, "I hope you didn't pay full price for that, honey, or you are one naïve customer."  I got curious, and kept carrying it.  Interestingly, of all the people who commented on it, not one person mentioned the poor designers whose pockets were being gouged by the scourge of knockoffs; the ethics of copying didn't really seem to be part of the problem.  One friend finally put her finger on it: 

"It says something, that you might not know it's a fake."

"Well obviously it's not real leather; it's vinyl!"

"That's not what I mean.  It's like you don't value yourself."

This struck me as ironic.  Women all around Tokyo, and not just wealthy ones, carry thousands of dollars on their wrists, and what I usually wonder when I see them is what they had to do in order to afford it.  You hear tales of young girls performing sexual favors to feed their designer habit, or hostesses who wheedle expensive trinkets from hapless customers as tokens of affection.  When every train carriage is populated with an explosion of the particularly ubiquitous Leather Vittleton, you have to conclude that it's not about the fashion, it's about the statement.  And the statement proclaims status, but something else, too: something to do with playing by the rules.  

Who knew it would be so easy to be a rebel?  Me and my sweet pleather bag, we're drawing concerned gazes all over Tokyo.  I am intensely fascinated by this, and secretly I'm also kind of enjoying it.  Maybe I'll try a green mohawk next.

By Kevin Cooney

 

I struggled for a while trying to popularize an emo-con to demark sarcasm in typed text.  I have both lost and made unintentional friends due to misunderstood e-communication. "Oh I am soooo excited to go to Steve's party."  You see, there is an obvious need for this universally understood emo-con. Just think of the sanity it could restore to youtube video comments, and endless bickering threads on Japan "discussion" forums. The need is clearly out there, but when will some clever anonymous netizen deliver the sarcastic hieroglyph that finally goes viral and ends the epic miscommunication everywhere on the net.

 

Another place I have found our current linguistic options lacking is in the endlessly spouted term "Gaijin" or "Gaikokujin".  This word is abused, misused and entirely lacking in certain discussions. 

 

I was thoroughly not enjoying my dinner, while next to me a Japanese man and woman, slurring slightly from the mojitos, picked apart the injustice of "Gaijin stealing Japanese women." The gentleman, believe it or not ladies, was bemoaning the ease at which Gaijin men poach the local ladies but Japanese men rarely are successful in the reverse direction.  Impelled to butt in (I'm such a Gaijin) I leaned over and pointed out that by government statistics more than two-thirds of international marriages in Japan involve a Japanese man and a foreign woman.  Less than a third of them involve a foreign man and a Japanese woman.  This is fact straight from the Japanese government.  It is not open for debate.  He was, as I'm sure many readers are right now, in disbelief.  The issue at hand though is rather one of linguistics. He wasn't talking about Gaikokujin, he was talking about GONADs.

 

To explain further however I must point out that the wide majority of married foreign women in Japan come from China, Korea and the Philippines.  The gentleman however was more specifically talking about white or black foreigners when using the term Gaijin.  We are all guilty of this in someway.  Walking down the street in Shibuya we see the dorky white dude and his Asian counter part and think... oh look an international couple.  We pass a Japanese man with his Chinese bride and think, "Oh look! McNuggets are only 100 yen today."  The wide majority of international marriages are mostly invisible to people watchers.  But the statistics say different.

 

The term Gaijin is too often invoked when talking about issues relating only to non-Asian foreigners in Tokyo.  Often its usage fails to include the great majority of foreigners, largely Asian living in Japan.  Of course they, if anything bear a more difficult burden for being a foreigner in their daily lives, but in the general discussion of Japanese, Non-Japanese issues they are not the ones being talked about.  The words Gaijin, or Gaikokujin are not really applied properly and inclusively.

 

Into this void I suggest the word GONAD.  I am a GONAD.  Many of my best friends are GONADs.  And often when I hear people discuss Gaijin life in Japan they are really talking about their GONADs.  That is, "Gaijin of Non Asian Descent."

 

So if the soused salaryman had said as he meant, "It is difficult for me to get a GONAD in the sack." He'd still be a moron, but somewhere closer to the truth. In the self obsessed, mini-western world theme park we've created in Roppongi, Hiro and Aoyama the word Gaijin is used incorrectly and incompatibly with the demographic facts of an international Tokyo. 

 

I suggest we add this subtle distinction so those late night carping sessions at Pubs across the city reflect who we are actually talking about.  All 100% of the Gaijin community are foreigners, but let's not presume to think that the issues of us GONADS define the experience here for the majority of non-Japanese.

 

 

 

By Martin Faynot

Second image of Jimbocho : as well as really old houses in Tokyo, there are a few cafes that haven't changed since the 50's. "Ladrio" is one of them. When you step inside, it's a kind of a timeslip back to postwar Tokyo (fortunately I wasn't born at this time though). Every item, cup, lamp, frame seems to keep their place defiantly against the years!
By the way, I'm going to hold an exhibition in Jimbocho with a lot more of Kanda-Jimbocho images like this one. It will be held at "Hon to Machi no annaijo" gallery from November 14th to December 11th.

For more information : http://www.cafemarutan.com

by Anna Kunnecke

 

The kids are coming home from preschool with bags and bags of damp laundry.  The clothes are filthy, covered in mud, and quickly turn rank and sour.  But I don't mind it one bit.  There is great delight in knowing that my daughter is spending great gobs of time in her natural state, which is to say covered in mud, leaves, sticks, sand, bugs, and water.   There is equal delight in having her returned to me every day washed clean, damp hair tied up in a tiny ponytail, fresh and clean and ready to walk home.

I'm telling you, this preschool stuff?  It's the secret to the universe.  

I am happy that she gets dirty, and I would be happy to participate in it about once or twice a week.  But I am happiest of all that she gets absolutely filthy almost every day, and I only need to be involved...well...once or twice a week.  

As far as I can tell, this dirtiness is all part of the plan at hoikuen (preschool).  There is a sense of entitlement in Japan when it comes to childhood, a belief that little kids are not just allowed but almost obligated to run around like hellions, dig in the dirt, and get filthy.  It's considered one of the sweetest phases of life, this time when you can run free and make a mess of yourself, and I can't help but wonder if the poignancy comes from knowing that such freedom will be short-lived.  The day they start first grade, they'll be marching to a different beat, and it will include mops and brooms.  

In any case, there are a lot of preschool activities that have to do with dirt.  There is the ceremonious making ofsunadango, (balls of sand, folks, just balls of sand) which is a playground rite of passage that apparently hasn't slackened since I was in kindergarten about a thousand years ago.  Then there is the yearly digging for sweet potatoes, imo hori, and the attendant mud communing.  There's the planting of the seeds, and the watching them grow, and the gleeful picking of the green thing that sprouts and eating it.  In the city, we don't take much for granted.  Food popping up out of the ground?  Now that's some serious magic.

Even the daily noon meal is hooked into the larger idea that food is connected to dirt.  Each day, the teachers set out a tray laden with a serving of that day's lunch under a neat glass box so that parents can see what their kids are eating.  Next to the tray is a little basket full of leafy carrot tops, onion peels, zucchini stems and sandy spinach roots.  In other words, it's clear to see, somebody made this meal from vegetables that were pulled right out of the ground, not too long ago, and not too far from here in the scheme of things.  It's so rooted, so connected, and so earthy, sometimes I get a little misty.

by Claytonian

I'm only human, and a man, so I can't help but glancing if a pretty young girl walks by.  Of course, there is proper etiquette to ogling correctly in public: be discrete, look no longer than a few seconds, keep your mouth closed, never do it around your girlfriend, and never look at a mom. That last one in particular should go without saying, but sometimes it's pretty hard to tell if someone is a mom in Japan, as the ladies wear fashions of the wrong style to be properly identified as mothers.

I come from a country where parents dress properly. That is to say, like old people. If you get married and/or pop out a miracle of creation, you have a duty to your fellow citizens to gain weight as a sign that you are off the market. It's just polite. Then you should take pains to switch to bad clothes. Anything that's out, in fashion terms, is in for you. So that means no miniskirts, no highlights, no keffiyehs, no sharp suits.  Society will accept you only if you wear flannel, sweats, or your acid-washed jeans from the 90s. And anything that lets your ponderous belly peek out a little is recommended. It's just common sense for American parents.

But the Japanese. Oh, where did we go wrong with them?  The mothers care about how they look. Can you imagine the confusion? "Oh, hey what's up, hot mama-- whoah! You really are a momma!" That ain't right. It disturbs the natural order!  The fathers get in on the act too, with goatees, fauhawks, decori shirts, and holey jeans.  How old are you, young man? Because that's what sixteen year olds in Japan wear too! A line must be drawn!

It wasn't always this way. Maybe before about 2002, the older generation of parents wore their parental uniforms with civic pride. The mothers knew that as soon as they got married they had to wear kappougi (big white aprons). And the fathers had to wear something like their sagyougi (really uncool green jackets that almost all office workers wear) or their salary-man suits and accompanying toupees. 

Nowadays, this system of uncoolness as parental status marker is being abandoned. So the next time you see a pretty Japanese girl, look for her hands. Because chances are, there will be a kid holding one of them.

By Kevin Cooney

To me the single most stunning attribute of Tokyo is it's capacity for change.  Sweeping changes, small nearly unnoticeable changes, shocking changes, silly changes, meaningless changes, my 8 years in the city are catalogued most not by the seasons or years but by things dissappearing, appearing and even reappearing.  Tokyo is a constant work in progress.  Like a painting whose neurotic creater feels impelled to keep fiddling with his master work and never gaining a sense of completion.  Of course all major cities are the same in this way, but of the major world cities I've lived in none seems as constantly transformative as Tokyo.  With all this change though, I'm not always sure the city is improving.  Or perhaps I'm just too stubborn to change.
     Long time expats, many longer than myself, mark their years in this city in remeniscent sentances like "There used to be this shop in omotesando with the best coffee." or "Remeber that buidling on the corner that looked like a broken down space ship?".  Sometimes they are personal rememberances like "Mike, what a crazy guy he was.  Hmmmm... whatever happened to him?"  He went home.  The building was torn down.  The coffee place went out of business.
     Some of the changes coincide with social or technological changes.  I have ex-pat friends who remeber back to when 99% of the population had black hair.  When you boarded a train an actual human being stamped your ticket instead of the magnet reading robots that guard the station gates today.  My personal biggest sense of loss and rebirth was when the iconic Dojunkai Aoyama Apartments were torn down and replaced with the buzzing hive of commerce that is Omotesando Hills.  The old, beautiful, ivy covered buidlings gave a sense of quiet to the street that is now gone. To be fair they were put up in 1927 and crumbling.  Other ex-pats like me were livid when we heard it was being torn down for "improvement". As a nod to those upset by construction, they even designed the south east corner of the building to approximate the look of old building.
     Now when I walk down Omotesando I have trouble recalling what it looked like before the face lift.  And actually, I can even admit to be pleasantly surprised how well the buildings outdoor design looks. Not to mention the bladder saving public bathroom they've included. I mention the old landmark to a friend once, and he seemed surprised anything ever existed before Omotesando Hills.  As though it had always been there, and the street the way it is today.
     Frankly, I find it is the foreigners who lament these changes most.  The locals seem endlessly verastile to put it in a positive way.  After all the bustling metropolis we busy ourselves about was completely flattened twice in the last hundered years.  Rebuilding seems almost an intrinisc part of the DNA of Tokyo.  Forgetting the past and moving on a mission statement boldly declared in every new towering building site.  Ive seen more than a few go up recently.  Roppongi Hills, Tokyo Midtown were just the start. Now even more unthinkable are the current projects to build a new Tokyo Tower, a new Tuskiji Fishmarket and a new Kabuki-za
     Sometimes I want to scream "Stop all this newness!"  But to deny the ever evolving skyline of Tokyo is to miss the most essential characteristic of this city.  Nothing stays the same for very long.  Least of all me.  I can't believe what a crotchety old timer I've become in just eight years.

By Claytonian

I seem to remember dimly (very dimly) stories of the mysterious Japanese from my childhood. Being a kid in the 80s, I heard vague rumors about the Japanese, who were our unofficial enemies, because they were rich and we weren't. Among the rumors of workaholism, geishas, and baseball prowess, I think I heard that they did calisthenic exercises at work.  Four years into my time in Japan in the present day, and I'm still not sure whether or not that one is true or not; I just don't make it into the office that often I'm afraid.

But I do know that at least one form of peculiar exercise does happen, and for many people it happens via morning radio. I experienced it first hand when I went camping with my junior highers. Wait, really? You do this? Together? Without laughing?  And it is a humorous affair, because besides synchronized silly movements, we have that radio exercise music. It is without fail a lilting piano piece. Apparently, our own beloved NHK broadcasts the song for the public each day.

I often spy older people around my neighborhood doing the radio exercises sans radio. But the other day, an obaachan (granny) did it on the train, using the bar that holds up the seat to assist with her killer workout (this went on for a few minutes). Shamelessly, I snapped a couple pics and made an animated GIF for your enjoyment. Here she goes:

by Anna Kunnecke

Here are the choices:
a) Japanese banks.  b) Traditional carved seals much like ones used to inscribe sealing wax.  c) Online banking.  d) A tidy paper booklet printed with your bank balance, kept in its own little pouch. 

Ding ding ding!  You're correct!  Even this far into the bright shiny future, Japanese banks are totally uncomfortable with internet banking. 

It's still relatively new, for one thing.  Until recently, the only way to check your bank balance was to actually go to your own bank's ATM.  Once there, you could open your nifty passbook to the correct page, insert it into the machine, and have it print out every single transaction since your last printout.  That part was handy.  However, most ATMs are only open until about 7pm, and are closed on holidays.  Even when technically open, they will probably do some functions but not others, according to a complicated date/time matrix no one can quite decipher.  (Hence my theory that Japanese ATMs are not actually fully automated; I submit that there's a human being back there who slides the money into the slot, counting out the bills and then punching a number into a screen; otherwise, why would there be any reason for the ATMs to close at all?  Isn't the point that they're machines and need so very few smoke breaks?) 

But just going to the bank in person isn't enough.  You must have with you your hanko, your engraved seal.  This is considered the only proof-positive ID; no amount of photo IDs, passports, or DNA testing will substitute for the little piece of carved bamboo that you can pick up for $20 in any neighborhood.  Being a seasoned Japan-dweller, I've simply gotten used to carrying around my little carved stick if I need to do any business at all at the bank--mine has a pouch!  and its own little jar of red ink!  and sparkle stickers!  --okay, no sparkle stickers.  The whole thing makes me deeply uneasy, because most people just keep their hanko lying in their desk drawers.  The same drawers, naturally, that hold their passbook--the two items with which a burglar could easily withdraw ALL the money from any bank account, even without a card or a PIN number or any kind of ID.   The banks often have signs saying, "Keep your hanko in a safe place!!"  Which of course is another way of saying, "None of you idiots are keeping your hanko in a safe place!"

But it turns out that you need your hanko another time too.  You need it if you want to end your internet banking contract.  (Yes, where 'internet banking contract' means paying $20 a month for the privilege of simply viewing your current balance online.)  The reason you are ending it, let's just say hypothetically, is because you have yet to be able to actually view your account online, and you're tired of paying $20 a month to haggle with customer service representatives.  No, they won't e-mail you a new password.  No, they can't tell you why the current password won't work.  No, there's nothing you can do online, even though you filled in eight thousand security questions.  The only way you can fix this situation, the one that you brought on yourself by daring to dream that checking your balance shouldn't require an actual train journey, is to go to the bank itself.  Not an ATM, not even any old branch office, but the central one where you first opened your account years ago, the one that requires not one but two trains.  You'll need your passbook and your hanko.  Also, quite possibly, the soul of your firstborn child, and if you have any sealing wax, well, you'd probably better bring that too. 

By Martin Faynot

Yes... A cemetary... by night! Not that I was experiencing some chilly-creepy moments like a teenager, sneaking into a cemetary, waiting for zombies to appear!

By Kevin Cooney

Everyear that I've been in Japan the Halloween holiday season has grown.  The Halloween spirit is reanimated each year by corporate sponsors who smell profit in this celebration of the undead.  The average Tokyoite seems not so interested, but just as Valentine's Day and Christmas took some convincing, I have a feeling the day will come when the whole nation is celebrating it.  Each passing year the size and scope of the celebrations expand and as the market for Halloween goods expands so do more stores jump on the broomstick.

     The register workers at my local supermarket are all proudly wearing little cat ears and devil horns.  Entire floors of the stores Don Quixote, Tokyu Hands and Loft have been transformed into Halloween emporiums.  Import food shops display mountains of spooky chocolates from abroad.  The full force of consumerism has jumped in on the side of Halloween, and appear to be promulgating it well.

     That said, I'm guessing that probably only about 5% of the Tokyo population is actually actively participating in Halloween.  This makes the greatest feature of it, trick-or-treating, essenitally non-existant in Japan.  Trick-or-treating requires that everybody understand and willingly participate in the concept, otherwise it is basically door-to-door candy extortion.  Fancy dress... extortion.

     The closest thing I can think of amongst Japanese holidays is Setsubun.  Setsubun which is celebrated on the third day of February is somewhat akin to Halloween.  Though from any child's point of view Halloween is decidedly better.  On Setsubun, only one member of the family is allowed to dress up, and that person must dress as a devil.  The family then throws roasted soy beans at said devil to drive out bad luck whilst inviting in good luck.  After the ceremony is complete, each member of the family eats a roasted soybean for each year of their life so far.  Mind you, these are not chocolate covered roasted beans.  Heck, they aren't even salted.

     I've explained the concept behind trick-or-treating to more than a few children and totally blown their pre-pubescent minds in the process.  Usually it ends with the kid in stuttering disbelief... "Wait... whuh? You mean any house I go to they give me free candy? Real candy!  Not blah tasting roasted beans?"  It's a good thing most are unaware, or children would realize how shafted they are getting on the holiday front.  

     Halloween has become, like Christmas and Valentine's Day more of an adult's holiday in Japan.  While the popularity of schools having Halloween parties has grown, the more noticeable change has been in the explosion of adult themed Halloween costumes and adult oriented parties.  It's a perfect fit for the Japanese, many of whom are already dressed Halloween appropriate year round.  But still it's struggling to take off.

     I suppose the last thing Japan needs is yet another imported holiday.  But the retailers certainly seem to think it's necessary.  Something to fill in the dead shopping space before Christmas begins in earnest.  But that holiday is still the premiere shopping event.  Halloween is still in full swing, and yet I've already seen shops bring out the Christmas decorations.  Some lament the westernization of the local culture.  I understand their point of view but in my experience, quite simply everybody likes a reason to party.  Japanese and Western holidays can live happily side by side.  Even though, beans do have a hard time competing with "Candy Bindge Day." 

Text and illustration by Claytonian

Etiquette is important, and messing with it really upsets things. There is a choice to be made whenever you see someone that does not seem to be Japanese in Japan. Maybe you notice a skin tone or clothing choices that aren't the norm, but whatever type of foreigner you realize you've spotted, the conundrum is the same: Do I make eye contact with this person as I walk by? For if I make eye contact, I will have to acknowledge them in some way.

This is something that doesn't happen in the overtly heterogeneous culture I come from.  Everyone is different, and reaction to strangers passing by is decided by region. For instance, in my neck of the Midwest, we smile and nod at strangers. If you are on a college campus, you may say hi to a member of the opposite sex. Even then, we never actually stop and talk to the stranger.  In other parts of America, the reaction to strolling strangers can be a little different, but I'm not too experienced with travel within my own country (I've been to more foreign countries that I have states).

But when you are in Japan, and you see someone who is also an obvious expat, things get confusing pretty fast. If you try your own traditional greeting, you may be thought a weirdo. At least that's the fear; doesn't matter that you will never see this person again. However, you don't want to seen as rude. But it seems silly to treat someone different because you are both foreigners--you don't have to deal with Japanese strangers after all. But foreigners are different. And so the debate continues within your mind, until you've run out of time and Ahh! We are passing each other now! D'yaah!

And that's when I usually smile and nod, the old standby I grew up with, because there is no other reaction I am prepared to make.  Usually, you get a response in kind, but sometimes you get no reaction. This of course is really annoying. I just got snubbed by someone I don't even know! I have friends for that kind of mistreatment. Where's the foreigner solidarity?!

But the worst is without a doubt when you've made the decision in your mind to ignore somebody and they greet you. After all, some days you just want to pretend you didn't notice in order to save your precious nodding energy. As you can tell from the above paragraphs, this is a very stressful experience to go dedicate yourself to anyways. If you get the preemptive greet, you have to reply in kind. The ignominy of it all is just wretched. I just got greeted by someone I don't even know. Where's my personal space? Get out of my Japan!

"Get out of my Japan!" is a joke a friend of mine picked up. It encapsulates perfectly the problem of spotting the foreigner: it's not just that you have to go through the awkwardness of interaction with a stranger, but rather that that stranger is totally messing up the plan. I'm the only foreigner I was expecting to encounter today, and now I'm not special. How rude.

by Anna Kunnecke 

I'm very fond of my last name.  I've sworn to hang onto it come hell or high water or marital status, and I've even bequeathed it to my daughter.  To tell the truth, I feel so strongly about the whole topic of last names and women that I am going to stop talking about it RIGHT NOW before I start frothing and smoking.  

I pronounce it, just like my Kentucky relatives do, as Kunn- neck- kee, although my German friends weep a little when they hear me say it.  Apparently some long-lost ancestor brought our name and genes over from Germany, but it's had a long time in Kentucky to morph from the German Koon-ecckh-uh into something more friendly to the American tongue.

When my parents came to Japan (lo these 25 years ago) they were sat down to figure out what their name would be in Japanese.  It's not as silly as it sounds; when you transfer a name into an entirely different alphabet and phonetic system, a little creativity and political savvy are often required.  (For the record, if you think you'll ever live in Japan, you really should avoid naming your kid Ben, Deb, or Gary.  In Japanese, those mean excrement, fat, and diarrhea.  Please trust me on this.)  

But it turned out that by happy accident our family name translated quite well into Japanese: Kah- neh- ki.  カネキ　And when you attach the most obvious kanji characters, it means something fortuitous: Money Tree.　金木　　It's not a common name here, but it sounds very Japanese, and a collective shout went up in our car one summer on the way up to the beach when we all saw the characters painted on a venerable old factory: Look!  That's us!  We gazed at it so fondly, you might have thought we'd be inheriting it.

My own name went quite efficiently into katakana: アンナ.  It's now quite popular among pop tarts and models, but for a long time I was the only あんなaround.  I learned early to accentuate that middle syllable, the nnn sound, because without it, my name becomes あな、穴、and people, that means hole.  And if you don't think I went through a few years of hell in middle school over that, then let me sit you down right now and explain to you why you should hire other people to name your kids.  

When I say it quickly on the phone, my name confuses people.  They think it must just be an unusual Japanese name.  Then, halfway through the conversation, when my normally-fluent Japanese hits a word I don't know, or I stumble on a complicated grammatical construction, they do not think, "Wow, this poor gaijin is working so hard to speak Japanese!"  No.  What they think is, "Wow, this person's an idiot, and the school system is obviously going to hell in a handbasket."

Similarly, when I introduce myself, most people assume that my last name must come from a Japanese husband.  No, I explain, it's bastardized German.  Oh, but it sounds Japanese.  Well, yeah, it turns out my pioneer ancestors' neighbors weren't so good at German, so they changed the pronunciation and...  

I am happy to go down this conversational rabbit trail with them, because it gives me a minute to take some deep breaths and not tear off screaming down the path I really want to take, which is: What makes you assume I would automatically TAKE my husband's name, you sexist jerks???  

The end.  

By Kevin Cooney

      It occurs to me (often) that more than a few pets in this city have a higher quality of life than I do.  Even my own goldfish, Kenji, has a comparatively sweet set up compared to my humble abode.   I mean considering his size versus my size and the size of our respective homes, he is swimming around in a palatial mansion.  Plus if it's really true that goldfish have a very short memory, by the time he gets to one end of his tank he doesn't even remember where he was a few seconds ago.  This would explain why he turns around heads back to where he was about 5 seconds earlier.  I hope he has a short memory, because that fish has seen things that would surely scar his young fish psyche forever, were they not happily already forgotten. 

      I pace around in my apartment a lot.  Unfortunately because it is so small I only go a step or two before I have to turn around.  So I guess Im not really pacing, just spinning.  It occupies a very large portion of my day.  The other portion is spent on my computer.  Similarly my fish hovers next to his endlessly bubbling water filter.  It's our respective comfort zones.  Cutting of his air supply or my internet would have disastrous health affects.

    Dogs carried in bags by attractive female Tokyoites however, I beat on acreage.  I have the added benefit of not having a mascara brush crammed halfway up my butt and a compact mirror digging into my spine.  While the prospect of being totted around by an attractive 20 year old is neat, I would really require a roman style litter and 4 to 6 litter bearers.  Preferably gyaruo.  That would be awesome.

    I digress.

    

    The sight of dogs carried in bags is a typical Tokyo sight, and one everyone seems to notice.  Mostly people just remark how decadent it seems, and when the woman is also carrying a parasol one starts to wonder if people missed the whole point of the Marie Antoinette story.  But what I take away from it is that, as ridiculous as the situation seems, the dog likely is unaware that the situation is ridiculous.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but dogs... while wonderful creatures are not particularly attuned to their surroundings.  My shins attest to the fact that most dogs have little social awareness.

    But dogs, if they dream, probably dream about pretty straight forward things.  Food, sticks to chase and an occasional tryst with a corduroy covered leg.  I never quite got the phrase, "every dog has his day."  I think for dogs, the standard to which they consider "having had their day" is pretty low.  Pretty much everyday is a dog's day.  Probably because dogs don't complain about apartment sizes.  Have you seen a "dog house."  That almost makes the japanese euphemism "Mansion" seem accurate.  Dogs also don't generally pass up delicious looking garbage... or really any garbage.  And of course dogs don't blog.

    So with this in mind I'm going to attempt not to envy my goldfish and his comparatively lush, lavish lifestyle.  I'm going to forego jealousy of pampered poodles in Prada.  I'm simply going to enjoy what life has given me and not want for anything more.  

    Well... ok, a little more closet space at least.

By Claytonian

So there are these... things. Holey things. But they aren't always holes. They always go under the peak of a triangular Japanese roof, but not all Japanese homes have them. What are they called? I have no idea, and the Japanese people I asked didn't either. But the purpose of holes in the roof is to allow air to flow through. I don't want to go on a rant here, but the traditional lets-let-air-through-what-should-be-an-insulated-shelter way of building homes really annoys me in many respects, especially when I can see my breath in my own home. But the upside is we get these... things. They look cool. My thoughts are below the image.

By Martin Faynot

by Anna Kunnecke

A while ago I wrote snarky things about the great ravine that divides good and atrocious Japanese customer service, and today I saw something so wonderful that I am just bursting to share it. 

I once was given a beautiful brushed-steel hot water kettle, but after two years it suddenly stopped doing its magic.  The water stayed cold.  One hesitant call to the company headquarters yielded a wondrous wonder: they practically begged us to send it in. 

Of course they would repair it!  But of course for free!  No receipt?  No problem! 

And it came back in the mail less than a week later, fixed, accompanied by the following letter, which I reproduce verbatim:

 

Dear Anna-san,

 

The repair of the Kettle which we received from you was completed.

We repaired your trouble product.

The cause of the trouble was point of contact defectiveness of the feeder panel and the main body.

Therefore we changed it to new connect.

And I did some tests about the work, but was able to confirm that I was usable as usual.  Therefore, we return this to you.

I sincerely look forward to the increased favors and attention you may extend to us.

We will make every effort to prevent a recurrence.

Please let me know if you have any questions.

 

Best regards,

Kayoko XXXXXX

Quality Assurance & Customer Service

 

That is the best customer service letter I have ever received.  It makes me want to give them all my money.  

By Claytonian

According to a book I ran across, named Tanegashima-The Arrival of Europe in Japan, the first impression of foreigners was not all that flattering. To paraphrase, there was a trading ship that came to Japan around the early 1500s with some Portuguese traders aboard. The local Japanese leader pulled a Chinese trader (who was also on the ship and could converse with Japanese people via writing kanji) aside and said, "Dude, what country are those guys from? They look totally strange."

To which the Chinese trader replied, "Ah, those are Southern Barbarians. They're a little ignorant about manners. Like, they don't even use chopsticks and they can't read. But it's all good. They aren't strange at all once you get used to the smell."

A little while later, the ship arrived at another port and one Lord Tokitaka saw a couple of the so-called barbarians shooting their guns. Tokitaka was like, "That is so awesome. Can you teach me?" And the barbarians were down with it. Thus was established a general attitude towards foreigners that can still be seen today: Foreigners are a little odd, and they stick out like sore thumbs, but they are totally cool too. The attitude that it can be cool to imitate or learn from a foreigner goes hand in hand with this precedent.

Fast forward to the present day, and you have people like me. People that shouldn't by any sane measure be considered cool or good looking, and yet we totally are. Last time I talked about how incredibly awkward I am, and how being in a foreign country multiplies the awkwardness by about 4, but this time I'm admitting it: I'm big in Japan. Cue the groans at an old joke--what is the origin of the phrase "big in Japan" anyways?*-- but it's true that around here, in stature and in presence, I and others like me (non-Asian-looking foreigners**) leave a huge impression, and if one is not careful, all the attention foreigners get can really go to the head.

First there is the most common occupation for English-speaking foreigners: English teaching--something I still do on the side right now. Imagine a career where you get constant praise, money, and attention for doing something that comes naturally to you.  Now of course if you are a good teacher you will be a little more dedicated and study your own language's grammar, idioms, etc., but it is all too easy for many English teachers to coast on the adulation of their students and never really put effort into teaching. In addition, many foreigners take no effort to get off or at least improve upon the eikaiwa gravy train. Few learn the local lingo either, staying wrapped in their English ego-bubble.

Even though many people have horrible Japanese, the natives take efforts to protect our feelings here. All to often have I heard, "Nihongo jyouzu desu ne!" (you speak Japanese well) in response to a mere word or two from me.  The thing is, if you hear that, it most likely means one of two things: a) "look, it spoke! I wasn't expecting that" or b) "their Japanese is pretty bad, but I will compliment them so they don't get discouraged."  Foreigners that don't hear this nuance may never think that they need to improve their linguistic skills.

Then there is the attention foreigners get for their looks. Expatriates, with their minor physical differences, often get compliments that are a little creepy when one thinks about them, like "hana ga takai" (more or less=the bridge of your nose is not flat and therefore beautiful) or "hada ga shiroi ne" (you're white, which is beautiful***). It's undeniably cool to be suddenly considered attractive just because your DNA is .0001% different and you never work on your tan, but when kids tug on my knuckle hairs and pronounce them cool, I can't help but remember that this attention is more than a little ridiculous and undeserved.

In conclusion, I think each foreigner--especially the ones from America or one of the other "cool" countries-- needs to strike a balance: on the one hand, bask a bit in the ego boost that comes your way and enjoy it while you can, but on the other, remember that you are a strange, hairy barbarian. Now you may be saying to yourself, I'm not that awkward, or cool, or that different looking, but hey, aren't we all hairy barbarians... on the inside?

--
*: Wikipedia to the rescue
**: Asian-looking foreigners have their own bag of awkward interactions with the locals here. For instance, there is the story of my friend and his face.
***: The grass is always tanner on the other side.

By Martin Faynot

By Anna Kunnecke

By Kevin Cooney

Perhaps the most universally hated question on the "Nice to meet you I'm a gaijin FAQ" is the personal and perennial "Why are you here?"

         There are a variety of reasons why we squirm under the spotlight this throws on our transient lives.  It's a personal matter, the answer is too complex, or (as our mom suspects) there is no answer.  After all, my closest family connection to a Japan is that I had a Game Boy and my Tsutaya video shop membership may out last my legal visa status, so there surely must be some greater purpose to my continued existence here.

         We all have our reasons.  Ive had so many its hard to remember, and all of them sound strangely like alibis rather than reality.

         For those who came for love of something material, the expat-otaku Akihabara denizens the admission seems so ignobly narrow.  Emigration for fandom, its like becoming an astronaut for your love of Spock.  But I'm sure someone did.

         For those who followed their sweethearts, or perhaps other organs the answer also seems sadly insufficient.  No one likes appearing as they have so little say in their life.  Like the "They made me come here" explanation given by those married to their companies.  Both types often throw in an obligatory and vague "But I'm really excited the culture."

         Then there are those indentured servants who make there way here as teachers and travelers always one step away from being a backpacker.  The "I just came here to travel" is fine, and good for those young travelers but as you renew that third visa the explanation wears thin.  After all, travelers by definition are on the way somewhere else.

         We all have seemingly flawed reasons to be here.  But why do we even have to find any justification for being here.  We are, isn't it enough.  Until I moved here I never had to explain my mere existence so regularly.  The "why are you here gaijin" question often feels like living in your parents basement, with everyone wondering when you are going to grow up already and move out to a normal life.

         Well this is my normal life.  Never did I sit on my sofa watching TV, with my Doritos and beer and suffer the angst filled question... "Why am I here?"  The answer was obvious. Because this is my sofa and I like Doritos and beer.  Granted, now I sit on a cushion on the floor, my Doritos taste of sea-life and the beer is much more expensive but damn it I am just being here, because this is my cushion.  Move along there is nothing to see.

         Why am I here?

         Why am I here?

         Well, I have a visa, therefore I am.