One Day

Hi... Japan - It's A Wonderful Rife has had an amazing month of March so far - easily topping over 2200 page hits. Thank you. I'm sure a lot of it has to do with the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear radiation concerns - but I've found that more people are actually reading the funny stuff..
So... I'm going to do that again - with the odd bit of current news from Japan when it happens - or at least when I find out about it.
I'm going to take you back to a very exciting time in my life. Okay, it's one of the many, many exciting times in my life, and it begins on Monday, May 27, 1991... according to whatever calculations I made, this is my 312 journal entry of life in Japan. It's also my 352nd blog today. Yay! Happy birthday or whatever. It's not my birthday.

It's an office day. I am still in my first year here as an assistant English teacher (AET) on the JET (Japan Exchange & Teaching) Programme - teaching at seven junior high schools in the city of Ohtawara (Ohtawara-shi) in the Prefecture of Tochigi (Tochigi-ken).
At the OBOE (Ohtawara Board of Education who pay my salary), I talk to my boss Hanazaki-san (Mister Hanazaki) about me wanting to kill all of the spiders around my apartment. At first he is concerend because all spiders are special to the Japanese.
Apparently - according fact or myth - the Buddha will return reincarnated in the form of a spider. Not wanting to tick off a country by accidentally killing the Buddha, I come to my senses and tell Hanazaki-san that there is no way the Buddha would be reincarnated in the home of a non-believer like me. So, until the real Buddha does show up elsewhere, I'd like to kill all of the imposters, I mean false prophets, for the Japanese people (and myself).
Hanazaki-san is no idiot. He knows I'm a joker and he knows he (and Kanemaru-san) are responsible for my well-being here in Japan. He knows I'm playing him, but gladly accepts my argument for killing spiders. He asks a junior office worker to order some spider spray for me.
Then I tell him that I would like to buy a telescope. Back in Toronto, the city lights at night are too bright and you can only see maybe 20 stars up in the sky... but in Ohtawara-shi after 9PM when the city rolls up its sidewalks - well... there are millions and billions of stars in the sky. Despite getting excellent marks in Astronomy classes in university, and having read every book I could ever get my hands on about astronomy and space since I was six-years-old, I had never actually looked through a telescope.
For some reason, Hanazaki-san has a book handy that shows me differing types of telescopes and their prices. Cool, but weird that he happened to have that book! I know people know everything about me here - but this is ridiculous!
Okay... things are going well... so I tell them I would like a small air-conditioner in my apartment because my goldfish are sweating. Hanazaki-san smiles and says he understands. Nothing else is said.
Apparently, on the JET Programme, host offices responsible for the AET get a fairly large annual budget - I believe it's Y300,000 ($3,000) to spend ( at their discretion) on the AET to make him or her more comfortable.
Who knew?
I did, of course... which was why I was acting the greedy little bastard.
I began studying some Kanji (the Japanese alphabet that looks like symbols and is based on the Chinese pictograph system) ... there are 1,942 Kanji one needs to learn by the end of high school in order to be considered fluent. Anyhow, along with learning how to write the Kanji, I also memorize all of the definitions and words you can use them with when you combine multiple Kanji symbols. Truly humbling.
At home, I receive a letter from my taxi driver friend Doug back in Toronto, who has sent me a 12-page document - hand-written. I write him back describing my theory on the origin of man and life on Earth, and then I create a story about the origin of God and why our universe will die. I think it's funny, and I'll present it to you (both stories) over the next two days before I go back to exciting time.
Anyhow, after I pen my tale, I eat dinner (I didn't write down what it was, but chances are it was take-out... as I didn't have alot of groceries in my fridge as I was going away the next day.
After my meal I ride my bicycle over to my extra-curricular night school gig and teach by myself for 40 minutes to about 20 adults from the city who are interested in learning conversational English but probably enjoy just talking to me more.
I head home at 9PM and iron clothes until 12:30AM.

Somewhere putting an electric fan in my aquarium,
Andrew Joseph
Today's blog title is by Matisyahu: NOMOREWAR
PS: I need to buy new goldfish.

 


   

Jet Airliner

Here is a semi-public service announcement for some friends.

The JETAA (Japan Exchange & Teaching Alumni Association) - Toronto chapter is championing a smoking hot Art & Photo Show.

The theme for this year's event follows the official 2010 kanji character of the year in Japan: 暑 (sho) meaning 'hot'.

Who the hell comes up with a kanji character of the year? Personally, my choice for kanji character of  2011 would be: 馬鹿 (baka - 'ba' and 'ka' mean 'horse' and 'deer', respectively) meaning 'stupid'. I know it's actually two kanji symbols put together to make one word. Horse + Deer = Stupid. How wacky is that?

Anyhow, artitistic blokes and blokettes have until February 20, 2011 to submit a heat-inspired original amateur art or photography. What the heck does that mean? Well... the JETAA says you should think: "hot springs, fireworks, sunsets, fire-breathing dragons... or really anything your hot little heart desires!"

Successful entries will be displayed at a smouldering hot evening of art, music and good times. Attendees can vote for their favourite piece and winners will be announced at the end of the evening. (Feel free to bring all of your friends and campaign for their vote!)
Send your submissions, including your name and contact information, to jetaa.events@gmail.com. For a look at last year's winners visit this link. Also, see the Rules and Regulations below.

Date: Saturday, March 5, 2011
Time: 7:30 til Midnight
Place: Gladstone Art Bar, 1214 Queen St. West, Toronto, just down the block from the Gladstone's main entrance (map)
Refreshments: Cash bar and food at The Gladstone, down the hall
Entry Fee: $5 for JETAA members / $7 for non-members
RSVP: jetaa.events@gmail.com

Rules and Regulations: 
    •    For photos, please send the original/largest file size your camera is capable of taking to ensure the best quality print;
    •    If you want to submit a painting, sculpture, printed photograph, etc., then we can make arrangements for that as well. Just drop us a line with the details of your piece and requirements for display;
    •    Limit of 2 entries per person;
    •    Deadline for submissions is February 20, 2011;
    •    JETAA Toronto reserves the right to display names and images on our website, newsletter, and other official JETAA media and publications;
    •    You must be the sole owner of the copyright of any work submitted.

And that, as they say, is that. Good luck to all participants. I'm suddenly developing hot flashes and may or may not enter myself. Uh, my photographs, that is. If I entered myself, well, that would be #1) quite painful not to mention anatomically impossible for me; and B) horse+deer.
 
Somewhere hot,
Andrew Joseph
Today's blog title is brought to us by The Steve Miller Band: JET
PS: The photo above is hot. It's the Blood Hell at Beppu (one of the magnificent seven Hells of Japan - another was my girlfriend's kitchen).

Truckin'

In Chinese and Japanese folklore, the koi (pond carp) is a symbol of strength, courage and patience. And, since the goldfish is a relative of the koi, it too is afforded the same status - which is why the OBOE (Ohtawara Board of Education) office where I worked in Ohtawara-shi, Tochigi-ken, Japan was very happy when I told them I wanted to get an aquarium.

Truth be told, I have always had pets - I've always had a dog (since I was 3), and a cat since I was 10 - I wanted to get something... A dog and cat were out of the equation because what would I do when I left Japan? It wouldn't be fair to the animal or myself.

Goldfish were my pet of choice - which the OBOE was only too kind in helping me purchase the materials I would need and even driving me to a goldfish farm to pick out the fish I wanted. You can read about a couple of my comic book stories HERE and HERE that relate to myself and Japan and my goldfish.

But this blog is about scrolls - more specifically the one you see here to the left - and about the koi.

According to Japanese (and Chinese) tradition, a koi that could leap up the waterfalls in steps would become a dragon (ryu).

Koi no takinobori (Koi waterfall climbing) as an adage describes one's success in overcoming adversity. I think that is some pretty cool symbolism. I suppose in Canada (and the U.S.) we have salmon traveling back up rivers, and up waterfalls to reach their spawning ground. Their perseverance is awe-inspiring. It's too bad that bears hand out there and kill the tired buggers just as they are about to spawn. I suppose it's the salmon's chance to come and go at the same time. Ba-dum-bump! 

On Children's Day - May 5 - families with boy's fly streamers with the koi pictured on it (koinobori) outside their homes as a wish for the boys to grow up strong and brave like the koi. 

And now, here's some interesting facts about kakejiku (Japanese hanging scrolls). 

As you may or may not know, I love art. I have many ukiyo-e (Japanese wood block prints) that are well over 150 years old, done by famous artists. My next thing to try and collect was also art-related, so I picked up a 200 year-old hand-painted kakejiku, a unique one-of a kind painting.

Each Japanese hanging scroll is actually hand-drawn, so even the same picture will have it's own unique look. 

Aside from owning a one-of-a-kind piece of art, the creation of kakejiku - the actual scroll, not including the painting - is a work of art in itself. It's construction is time consuming and labour intensive. To me it's like painting a masterpiece and then having another master take the time to construct a frame for it. 

While many kakejiku paintings are sumi (made with black carbon from a lamp) and sketched on paper, others involve hand-painted pigments on paper or silk. Mine is on paper. 

Whatever the medium, typically this hand-painted artistic work is completed by an individual artist who is separate from the task of the scroll-construction process itself. 

To make a scroll, a master scroll maker needs to do a lot of things, but chief is the laying of the painting atop a fine hand-made Japanese paper backing. The edges or margins of the artwork are overlaid with a fine silk brocade. 

Next, narrow strips of brocade silk (ichimonji) are often placed as a trim above and below the painting and an additional two narrow silk brocade strips (futai) are placed to hang down from the top edges.  

Since it's a scroll, a dowel is placed on the bottom to become a weight for the art, or, when it is rolled up and placed away, the art is rolled around it. 

Apparently, what the artisan uses as the dowel is of chief importance, separating the expensive from the "I-can-afford-that" expensive. The real expensive stuff (that collectors want) are made from animal bone, ivory or antler. China is also preferable, but the most common material (which is what mine is), is a lacquered wood.  

Lastly, an optional piece is a scroll weigh in the form of a pair of tasseled weights called fuchin - it's used to keep the scroll straight if it's placed in a breezy location - like say a temple or shrine.  

Scrolls are rotated in and out - by that I mean the Japanese change the scrolls relative to a season or a holiday event.  

Somewhere this fish can't swim,

Andrew Joseph

Today's title is by The Grateful Dead: LONGSTRANGETRIP

PS: Just in case I never mentioned it, Andrew, when translated into Japanese Katakana (an alphabet for foreign words), it becomes An-do-ri-yu. When I translated it phonetically into Kanji (think Chinese alphabet), it becomes An-do-ryu. In Japanese, there are many different ways to write the word An, the word Do, and the word Ryu. I chose mine to actually be An-Doo-Ryu. I made the 'O' longer, in order to have my name mean: Peaceful-Leader-Dragon.

PPS: Jo-se-fu became: Help-World-Walk.

PPPS: Andrew, of course, is of Greek origin and means: Man/masculine. I love my name!

Light My Fire

I was wondering when it would happen. My friends had expected it almost from the instant I moved into my apartment here in Ohtawara-shi (city of Ohtawara), Tochigi-ken (Province of Tochigi), Nihon (Japan).
I had a lot of frayed octopus cords lying about the apa-to (apartment), but still... you never think it'll happen to you. And, will wonders never cease... it didn't.
One cloudy day in Ohtawara (that's redundant, it's always cloudy in Ohtawara), after peeping through my front door's peephole weren't waiting to waylay... I mean, speak to me, I opened up the door and walked out. Out into the thickest, most acrid, foul-smelling smoke I'd ever encountered since my last officer party two days earlier.
This time, however, the black smoke was billowing out from my neighbour's apartment!
Uh-oh! A fire! Just what I needed. Everytime I step out my door to by razor blades (only then), something happens. Fortunately for me and my writing, I need razor blades quite often.
Since I'm not Japanese, I decided to get involved.
Fortunately, I had just learned the Chinese/Japanese Kanji symbol for fire - 火... let's see... that's pronounced 'Ka', right? Like in the translation for Tuesday - 火曜日?
I began pounding on my neighbour's door yelling "Ka! Ka! Ka! Ka!", but there was no answer. I tried the door - feeling it first for heat (none), I turned the doorknob figuring the Japanese rarely lock them - but this time, it was locked! I guess living next door to a foreigner (gaijin) does have its drawbacks.
Next, I ran back into my apartment, dialed 9-1-1 - which is what we in North America dial to call for the police, ambulance or fire department. But not here in Japan or other countries.
As I hung up the phone and was about to dial again, the phone rang. I screamed into the phone: "Ka! Ka! Ka! Ka!"
Pausing for a second to catch my breath, I heard a "Herro" on the other end. Nertz. It was that student of mine from Nozaki Chu Gakko (Nozaki Junior High School) who liked to call me up and not speak English. He was/is mentally-challenged - but then who isn't? - but a heck of a nice boy with absolutely no sense of timing.
Without saying a word to him, I hang-up and dial 1-1-9! A voice on the other end says: "Konichiwa. (Hello). Chotto matte kudasai. (Just a moment, please)". Strains of Greensleeves stun my already stunned senses. I've been put on hold.
Once again, I raced out of my apartment and pounded on the neighbour's door. I then ran to the units of some other neighbours and pounded on their doors.
I could hear them inside! I could hear their eyeballs scratch up against the inside of the peephole as they stood on a chair to peep out. I screamed: "Ka! Ka! Ka! Ka!", but no one opened their door.
I ran down the stairs (I'm on the third floor) - never take the elevator! - and ran into the liquor shop directly below my place. I yelled: "Ka! Ka! Ka! Ka!"  to the old man who runs the store. He looks to his 30-year-old son before handing me a large bottle of sake (Japanese rice wine).
Quickly realizing they have missed the point, I thank them for the booze, bowing deeply, grab the old man's cigarette lighter from the counter and set fire to a display of HOPE cigarettes (Hope? Hope for what? Hope I don't die from cancer?).
The father and son both yell "Bakayaro (stupid idiot)!" and put the boxes of lit cigarettes into their mouth. Old habits, I guess.
The son, between gigantic puffs, then asks why I set fire to their display (in English, by the way!) I tell him in broken English (as apparently I've forgotten how to speak it in the last couple of years) that there is a fire upstairs!
The son screams: "Ay Carumba!" (I had lent him a video of The Simpson's) and calls the fire department for me.
His end of the translated phone call went something like this: "Fire! At Zuiko Haitsu! ... Where is it?... Uh, at the corner of two nameless streets... No... not that one... the one with the strange car... yes, that's right. The blue one!"
Seconds later (I forgot I actually live quite close to the fire station), the fire engine pulls up. The chief confers with the old man, who is still puffing away on 20 or more cigarettes. next, the firemen haul out their equipment and begin shooting a jet of water into my apartment on the third floor!
Bakayaro!
After 10 minutes of translation, I'm able to convince them that it's not my apartment on fire, but rather the one with the black smoke pouring out of it next door. They cart the equipment upstairs - they took the elevator! - and see the thick acrid smoke pouring out from an apartment. In unison, they yell: "Kaji!"
Okay... so that's how you say 'fire'.
They rush to the door and ring the doorbell. My neighbour unlatches the door and peers out. The chief asks: "Kaji desu ka (Is it a fire?)".
The husband smiles and says it's only the wife's cooking.
Not understanding why my neighbours didn't open up the door for me, I got the old man's son to write a translation for me.
It turns out (more translations) that with me yelling: "Ka! Ka! Ka! Ka!", they thought I was a large crow beating its wings on the door trying to get in to eat their crying child.

Somewhere sitting on a wet couch,
Andrew Joseph
PS: Originally entitled Come On Baby Light My Kaji, this blog's title is by the Doors: LIGHTMYFIRE.

One More Rainy Day

Hi... I've just come back from six days in wonderful Illinois visiting with my friend Bongo and sitting at a table taking photos of people in American Kabuki costumes (it's what I call mass media costumes - superhero, video game, television, movies). We also sold our second issue of Evil Scientist Quarterly (#1 still available). So, if anyone wants a copy - they are $3 apiece (forget about postage) - they are a parody of GQ except it's written by myself with Steve doing the art and pretending he's Terry Gilliam doing the Monty Python cut-out animation. It's very funny. E-mail me!

Since I'm not up to speed yet... the next few days will see some short observations about Japan.

Ever since I first hit by a car while riding my bicycle in a typhoon (I know, two silly things in that one phrase), I have been having just the worst luck with the weather. 

It rains every time I travel anywhere in this country: Tokyo; Osaka; Nikko; Kyoto; Beppu; Miyazaki; Kagoshima; Fukashima; Saitama; Gunma (it snowed); Kobe; Tokyo Disneyland (it's actually not in Tokyo, but rather it's in Chiba); and even Thailand (you'll have to wait a bit longer for this adventure).

It's very frustrating. All of my photographs around this wonderful country have rain clouds in them. In fact, it's a sense of great pride and surprise when I actually see a photograph that shows a bit of blue sky in it. 

My students know all about my luck with the wet weather because, well, they asked, and I showed them photographs. They gave me an awesome, if rather obvious, nickname: "Ame Otoko" which means "Rain Man". 

At first I thought they were calling me "Candy Man". You see the word 'Ame' is spelled and sounds like the Japanese words for 'rain' and 'candy'. It's pronounced 'ah-may'. However, when it is written out in Kanji (the Chinese style lettering/letter), it has two different looks. Of course, 'ame' when written in Kanji also means sky and heavens  - but I didn't know that until five minutes ago.

Here are those symbols: 

Sky

                        

                                                                                                                           Heavens 

Candy

                                                                                       Rain - actually looks like rain, too!

I did say short observations, didn't I?

Okay... so my students call me Rain Man. My office, the OBOE (Ohtawara Board of Education) picked up on that (there's a gaijin grapevine where everybody knows everything about the local foreigner), and also began referring to my wet making ability. (I know what I wrote and I'm not making a joke about it).

My students politely suggested that I travel to Okinawa to combat the drought going on there, but the OBOE said I wasn't allowed to have two jobs.

They want me to give up my job as an AET (Assistant English Teacher).

Are they kidding me? Why would I give up being an AET? Ugh. I might have to do real work.

Somewhere with a towel,

Andrew Joseph

Today's title is by Deep Purple: WATER 

Whoops... wrong video. However, it's a better song than the DP one.

Our House

After living through a winter every bit as cold as Toronto's, it's finally warm in Ohtawara again.

I suppose the weather improvement it must have been good news to all the health nuts out there who want to kill skin cells with poisonous solar rays. yet, for the people like myself who don't care about tans because they are smart enough or already have a perma-one, the warmth is still a kind of hellish nightmare. Why? Because when it gets warm in Japan, it brings out the pests--and I ain't talkin' about insects (although come to think of it, they are becoming a bit of a problem, too. Ugh!).

In my eight-storey apartment complex live two students. One lives in the unit across from my door, while the other lives directly above me. It could have been worse, but I live in a wing, so I don't have neighbours beside me at all.

Still, these two little @#$%!s have bragged to their friends and enemies in all seven of the junior high schools I teach at here in the city that they know where I live. Former students, now in high school, have told their friends who told their big sisters (that, I don't mind).

Why everyone wants to know me and my home is beyond fathoming. I'm hardly the only foreigner in the city (in fact, just next door the Japanese fellow who runs the local Catholic church gets all my mail written in English, because the post office assumes that all Catholics must be foreigners!), and I'm hardly the only foreigner here of any colour (there's an Asian farm school that invites farmers from all around the world--India, being one of the countries--to learn Japanese rice farming techniques. It involves a lot of urination). The only explanation that comes to my mind - so as it is - is that the Japanese want to learn more about me and Canada.

Yes, I'm Canadian, and to tell the truth, I've never met a Canadian who was as interested in Canadia (???) as the Japanese appear to be. (I know the real word - it's Canadidia) (???).

Do any of you recall me telling you about the old lady who used to call me up on the phone and terrorize me by speaking Japanese? I swore to what ever kami (gods) I believed in that day that I'd get back to you on that one. Turns out that the old lady is actually a 14-year-old boy with a retainer and a high voice. In short, a student. At least he's kept my phone number a secret. I've not been so lucky with my address.

I have been inundated with 'guests' who have as much knowledge in English as I do with Japanese. Brrrrr. When did it get so cold? In every visit, I can sense their shock and awe as they enter my apartment and notice I have more Japanese objets d'art than their family has.

"What do you like Canada?" they ask. Experience has taught me to realize this means: "Where is your stuff Canadian?" Hmm, I could have sworn I gad some stuff Canadian. When I arrived in Japan I had six boxes of stuff--apparently all clothing made in Korea or Taiwan, or some other polyester country.

Since I don't have any stuff Canadian to show them, I usually end up telling my pest, I means guests, all about stuff Canadia.

I tell my visitors about how a Scottish-born dude who moved to Canada when he was 23, and therefore must be Canadian, invented the telephone (Alexander Graham Bell) and then ask the guests why the Japanese word for telephone (denwa) is not a Katakana word.  Wha-?

Y'see, after 1867, when after 300 plus years of keeping all foreigners out, Japan opened up its ports to foreign tourists and traders, it brought the telephone over... sometime after 1876 when Bell invented it. Since it's a foreign invention, the telephone should be a katakana type of word. The idea is that Japan wanted its populace to always know which words were foreign-grown (written in Katakana), and which were home-grown, like all Japanese words in Kanji (which is based on the Chinese pictographic alphabet). It's all screwed up. Just like English.

Anyhow, the word for telephone should not be 'denwa' but rather 'te-re-fo-no'... or some other bastardization Katakana. No one in Japan could offer me a decent explanation for this word usage, least of all my junior high school guests. If you think THIS explanation is tough, you should put yourself in their shoes (actually, they didn't take off their shoes when they entered my apartment - buggers!) when I explained it to them in broken English and Japanese.

Next I talked to them about hockey while skating around my apartment in my socks. White it's not a Canadian invention, hockey is widely associated with Canada because most Canadians think we invented it. Anywho, the respect these kids showed me by their silence showed was deafening.

Removing my Sega video game system and Nintendo Game Boy from their hands, I then proceeded to blow their minds regarding baseball and basketball. Rumour has it that Canadians were playing baseball 12 years before American Abner Doubleday 'invented' it. As well, James Naismith - a Canadian - invented basketball.

The shock is always too much. they get up from my couch and chair, say 'herro' and leave.
 
It does my heart proud to know there are people here in japan with a new respect for Canada. I was also recently told that the double bed I was given (instead of the crappy futon that made my back hurt more than usual) was a gift from a local family to help the friendship between Canada and Japan. While I almost said that if they really anted to help relations between Canada and Japan, they should find me a woman, I instead I smiled and said: "Oh, I didn't know there was a problem.

Somewhere on a pedestal for public viewing,
Andrew Joseph 
Today's title is by ska-rock band Madness - FUN.

Hey, Hey We're The Gaijin

The following should be sung to the tune of "Hey, Hey We're The Monkey's" after you've had a few beers. It doesn't actually make the shoddy writing better, but at least you'll have a beer. As a reminder, the Japanese term "gaijin" literally means outsider, but is generally recognized as "foreigner". Gaikokujin, I believe, means foreign person.

"Here we come.
Walking down the street.
Get the funniest looks from
Everyone we meet.


(refrain) Hey, hey we're the Gaijin.
People point and stare 'round the town.
But we're too busy teaching
To put anybody down.


Just trying to be friendly.
Wantta sing, dance drink and smoke.
We're from a foreign nation.
That they pay us to speak is a joke.


Hey, hey we're the Gaijin.
You never know where we'll be found.
So you better get ready,
We're gonna live in your town."
(and fade out).

Okay. Stop singing now. No matter how dull and boring a person you are--don't worry, the Japanese probably think you are fascinating and exciting. It's almost an obsession, but like a horrible car accident, they can't look away when they see you. It's why they know everything about you and what you do. Little brother is watching.
Remember how you once went shopping wearing a shirt with a small rip in it? Well, everybody noticed. They may not have said a word to you, but they noticed and told all of their friends. Didn't you wonder why there were four new shirts stuffed into your mailbox? Creepy? Yes. But really, it's not a bad type of attention.
There is no such thing as an anonymous foreigner in Japan--especially for those of us who live in a small city, like Ohtawara. Fifty thousand very curious folk.
It's why I can say with great conviction that I am a G.O.D. That's right--a Gaijin On Display.
No matter what I do in my city, someone besides myself is taking notes.
The populace is not only used to seeing me fly down the street on my overly large bicycle, but they also see me crying helplessly in front of the ATM trying to decode the miserable Kanji (an alphabet officially consisting of 1,942 Chinese symbols) buttons on the machine.
Before becoming a G.O.D.--back when I was just your run-of-the-mill gaijin--people used to point, stare and shout "Gaijin". But, since achieving G.O.D.-hood, now they point, stare and say "Gaijin-san". Yes, they call me mister.
It's a subtle difference to be sure, but I think it's because they realize I'm not just visiting their city, I've becoming a part of the community.
I may not have mentioned it yet, but I love Ohtawara.
As a known entity, you can pretty much kiss your privacy goodbye--especially if you are going to hang out with me. That's what happened to Ashley.
In my circle of Japanese cohorts, Ashley was known as An-do-ryu's girlfriend. In her circle of cohorts, she was also known as Andrew's girlfriend, but she continually tried to downplay it to the natives by insisting that she had no boyfriend. She said she didn't want people to think we were sleeping together. They knew.
She had no idea that her bosses were talking to my bosses, and knew the real deal about our relationship. It was important that they knew the truth.
I asked Hanazaki-san if he had an opinion as to why the people of Ohtawara were so curious about my life in the city. He told me it was because I was a part of their community and they wanted to ensure that everything was all right for me. He also mentioned that at 25-years-of-age (it's still early September of 1990--and my birthday is two months away), I was at the perfect marrying age. It's why they wanted to know my dating situation, and why I was being observed. If I was single, they needed to know if I was good husband material. Really, I love this place.
Conversely, if Ashley was single, they would want to try and set her up.
Matthew? He was an enigma to me then (I'd only known him for a month!), and may have been an enigma to a fair chunk of the populace of Ohtawara, as well. I'm pretty sure he was already out chasing Japanese women, so he may not have been an enigma to them. I don't know how a 6'-3" strawberry-blond American can blend in and become invisible, but I think he did alright--in more ways than one.
I think that for the Japanese it was cool to: talk to, be friends with, or date a foreigner.
Ashley, if you will recall, taught mainly at the Ohtawara Boys High School, but also taught at the girls high school. I know that I had volunteered to do so, too, but the OBOE was too smart to fall for that one.
It's probably why I constantly had high school girls (and older) come up to me and shyly introduce themselves in English. They've been told by Ashley that she has no boyfriend, but Andrew in his self-introductions has said he does. Is the Intel. wrong? Could Andrew's information not be up-to-date? Better to be safe than sorry, the girls would press phone numbers into my sweaty hand.
Why doesn't this kind of stuff ever happen back in Canada?
Anyhow, for some reason (guilt) I never acted on any of these phone numbers.
To a nerd like myself, suddenly becoming popular--with women, men, dogs--is ego-blowing. But I wonder... would the Japanese still be enamored and impressed if they found out that I accidentally mailed my bankbook?
Somewhere G.O.D. has new shirts.
Andrew "Monkey-boy" Joseph
PS: The Photo above is from an AET retreat a year later in 1991: If you click on the photo to make it larger and look closely at the TV screen, you can see that we are singing Country Roads. (From left) The funny CIR (Coordinator of International Relations) whose name I can't recall but won't be appearing in this blog, Me, Jeff Seaman, Matthew Hall, Tim Mould. Matthew is wearing very nice socks.
PPS: I parodied the title from a song by The Monkees.

Come Together

Let's backtrack a week.

It's Friday, September 1, 1990. I still haven't taught a lick of English yet - but I have been told I am expected to teach the OBOE (Ohtawara Board of Education) members some English.
Hell, no. I haven't even taught the kids yet, and I get to do that with a Japanese Teacher of English--but to teach at the OBOE, oy gevalt! Aside from Hanazaki-san, my next best student is Kanemaru-san... and he's the fastest man in the Far East with a dictionary.
However, because I am anxious to make a favourable impression of Canadians on the Japanese, I agree. There is much celebrating. OBO(Y)E.
At lunch, my class of seven anxious OBOE women and two men (my bosses) stare at me with rapt attention. I have no idea how to teach or even what to teach. I ask Hanazaki-san if there is anything they would like to learn. The men say: bad-o words. The women giggle. I wink at the men and say, dame ("da-may" = no way). I give them the basic conversational: "Hello. My name is. - " and "What is your name?" stuff. They are surprisingly good and after 60 minutes are able to say: "Herro. Mayonaise is add your name-o hee-ya. Whato izu yo-a name-o?"
Better than any Japanese I know.
After class Hanazaki-san tells me that they are having an enkai (party) in my honour tonight, and ask if I can attend. I didn't have the guts to create a joke answer.
After work, Kanemaru-san drives me to my apartment throwing my bike in the back of his van. It's NOT a white van, and that confuses me.
I get dressed and we drive over to the Ohtawara Banquet Hall a mere two minutes away from the OBOE.
If you've seen one banquet hall, you've seen them all... they all sort of have this crappy Italian look to them. Fake. I'm not saying Italian architecture is fake or crappy... I'm just saying that the hall is crappy. I have photos. Just wait. The click-thru is somewhere below. The wallpaper is gold. The carpeting is red. And it's all quite jarring to my foreign eyes.
Along the far wall is a lectern sitting atop a two-inch high stage that I discover after tripping over it. On the wall behind the stage is a Canadian flag on the left, a Japanese flag on the right, and a poster with Japanese kanji (one of three alphabets) that I hope welcomes me--who knows, though. The Japanese, as I have been quick to discover, have a delicious sense of humour.
Thankfully, I am not required to sing my national anthem to get this party started. Instead, the OBOE's Hanazaki-san (I only recently learned he used to be a science teacher) gave a short introductory speech, welcomed me to the stage and asked me to say a few words.
I have to say that in what would eventually become three years in Japan, this was one of the few times I was NOT surprised to learn I had to do something. Hmmm, it must have got lost in the translation.
I did get a bit of a surprise, however. As soon as I began giving my prepared speech in English, Shibata-sensei translated for me. Remember, pretty much everybody there was an English teacher and could speak super English, right? Hunh. I'm sure it was translated for my few fellow OBOE staff who came out to celebrate my inaugural meeting with the city's middle school English teachers. Excluding those that I met a couple of weeks earlier in a drunken stupor during Obon. Of course, many of the people I met were also in a drunken stupor, so it's likely no one remembers our first meeting.
Turns out I was correct. I was drunk and couldn't remember anything. My Japanese counter-parts (IE teachers... at this time, I still considered them my equals---ah, ignorant foreigner)--they knew who I was.
The speech was fine. I apparently said all the right things, and did not have to apologize to anybody. Bottles of wonderful Kirin Lager beer were opened up, toasts were made (in Japan, rather than 'cheers' or 'salute' the Japanese say 'kanpai' which is pronounced: kahn-pie), and food was served.
I had a great time meeting the English teachers--and I must say it was a fantastic idea of the OBOE to even think about doing something like that. Sure, any excuse for an enkai, but still, the OBOE really looked after me.
By 10PM, it was over. I didn't realize it at the time, but all of the good little English teachers had to head home and get some sleep because they had school the next day (Saturday). I had no idea. I had the day off because that is what Westerners do.
Anyhow some of the bad little English teachers and various members of the OBOE said we should hit the local bars.
Someone drove us to the drinking area of Ohtawara, which as it turns out is a three-minute walk or 11-minute stagger from my apartment. I recall Kanemaru-san buying me a bowl of hot ramen noodles and beers before we staggered off to a karaoke bar.
Now, those of you who have heard me speak know I have a decent, powerful voice and a face made for radio--but that doesn't translate well for karaoke...which you might not know means, drunks trying to sing crappy songs.
I probably had enough to drink seven beers prior (who knows how much I had--- they kept topping up my glass as I drank it down!), and I was sticking around because: it's my party and I'll die if I want to; and I wanted to fit in.In fact... fitting in is what this blog is all about. Successes and failures.
Kanemaru-san, Hanazaki-san and a few of the English teachers (Tomura-sensei had smartly packed it when the original party broke up, but Shibata-sensei and Inoue-sensei of Dai-chu) were definitely there. The place only had three karaoke songs in English: Country Roads; Love Me Tender, and; My Way.
I'm not partial to country or western music or Sinatra but I do love Elvis. Unfortunately the English teachers decided to show off and got up on stage to butcher Elvis whereby if he wasn't dead, he would have killed himself.
It's not their fault... but the voices that stood out were the ones who were either the most drunk or the ones who had a heavier Japanese accent when speaking English. Love Me Tender when sung that night became one of my favourite memories--such as they are--of Japan. The inability of many Japanese to say the letter "L" and transform it into an "R" and the letter "V" into a "B" turned the song into Rub Me Tender.
I was on the floor and rolling under the table either very drunk or howling with laughter. When they finished I bought them all a drink.
It was then my turn. I have always liked The Sex Pistols. I had always imagined myself as kind of a suburban punk, which is why I dressed normal and sang My Way like THIS. Including all of the voice cracking, a few leg kicks and lip snarls.
Let's just say that when I finished and walked back to my stool, the applause was genuinely mild as almost everyone had passed out from alcohol poisoning.
For some reason Kanemaru-san's wife came into the karaoke bar (she was not at the party), dragged her husband and myself into a van and drove me home. As I poured myself out, she said her first English words to me "Sayanora" (which sounds a lot like Japanese for 'good bye') and drove away as the sun rose. It was 4AM.
Oh yeah... click HERE to see photos at the banquet hall of my welcome party.

Somewhere Sinatra is wishing I had done it his way,
Andrew Vicious Joseph.
Title is by The Beatles.

Don't Pay The Ferryman: A Map

I should have done this at the very first, but here's a map showing where the heck Tochigi-ken is in relation to the rest of Japan. CLICK.
If you look at the "A", it designates the province's capital city of Utsunomiya (oot-sue-no-me-ya. Move an inch upward, and you'll see Ohtawara written out in English and in Kanji (Chinese-style alphabet).
With this map you can zoom in and out to get a better perspective of my locale.

Somewhere wishing I had Google Maps when I lived in Japan,
Andrew Joseph
Title by Chris de Burgh.

Ohtawara – Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Ohtawara is one of twelve cities in Tochigi-ken. It is not a city like Tokyo, New York, London or Toronto; rather it possesses a small-town feeling of rural life. Thank goodness.
It is the smallest city in the Prefecture with a population of about 50,000 – although the populace is spread out quite a bit as the area is long from north to south.
For reference, although I had a really large apartment and lived in the centre of the city, I was still only a three-minute walk from the nearest rice field or 7-11. But more on food and convenience later.
Day Two in Ohtawara: Kanemaru-san came by to pick me up at 7:30AM that morning. I’d been up at the crack of dawn – 4:30AM – as I didn’t have drapes in my bedroom.
After the cursory bowing, and describing my drapes of wrath dilemma, we went downstairs – we took the elevator! – and walked out the main entrance towards a sheltered bike rack. Pointing to a small red bicycle that obviously belonged to a much shorter and female individual (Cheryl), Kanemaru said: “An-do-ryu sensei” (Andrew teacher’s).
He looked at the bicycle – a classic 1-speed with a light and basket on the front – while I grimaced. He shook his head and had a smoke and marched me into his waiting white car.
In the two-minute drive to the Ohtawara Board of Education (OBOE), Kanemaru-san was able to finish half a deck of smokes. An impressive sight.
I won’t bore you too much here, suffice it to say that when I entered the front door of the building everyone was waiting for me. There was a Canadian flag on a wall beside a Japanese one, flowers everywhere and well-dressed men and women lining the hallway bowing at me.
I didn’t know what to do, so I bowed deeply and said: dozo yoroshiku onegai shi masu (please take care of me). They all bowed some more and said something that sounded similar to my phrase.
Satisfied that I had not upset the balance of nature, Kanemaru-san put his hand on my shoulder and nudged me forward to an elevator. It was an Otis!
Getting off at the top floor (there were three floors), Hanazaki-san was waiting for me by the elevator. I bowed deeply. He bowed. We bowed together repeatedly for a few seconds.
There’s actually a trick to bowing. You place your hands straight to your sides and bend forward at the waist. You do not make eye contact with the other, but – and here’s the trick - look at the other person’s shoes. If their shoes are better than yours, they must be more important than you so hold the bow longer and deeper.
I was led to an office down the hall – by the way, although every office contained a door, not one was closed – and was introduced to the Superintendent of the OBOE. Not a tall man – maybe 5’-3” and shrinking, he was dressed in a tailor-made suit and had shoes that looked very expensive. I bowed, said my piece and noticed he kind of just nodded his head at me. That’s okay. I know my place. I’m the lowly gaijin (foreigner).
Nope. He came around his desk, smiled widely, and grabbed my hand and pumped it in an enthusiastic handshake and said the only English word I ever heard him utter in three years. “Welcome.”
Ushered into a larger bullpen, I was introduced to the other nine people in the office. I had a nice corner desk and roller chair and had a beautiful Fuji computer perched on it with the all-important large, floppy diskette drive. The characters on the screen were in orange. The keyboard was pre-set for English characters, but I was shown how to switch to the Japanese alphabet – all three of them. I’ll describe the alphabets in greater detail later – suffice to say that Kanji consists of 1,942 Chinese letters, while Hiragana and Katakana each have 71 symbols, and none of them look like English.
While Japan may indeed be a technological leader in electronics and computers, there was no trickle down to the average Joe Suzuki. My old Atari 400 computer from 1979/80 was better than this one made 10 years later – and mine could do colour.
Not that it mattered… like most people, I use the computer as a glorified typewriter.
The three women who were part of the team brought us all a cup of o-cha (green tea). My first of 1,000s. That day. Sometimes it seems like that statement is correct.
Sitting around for two minutes, Hanazaki-san, Kanemaru-san and the guy who first drove me to Ohtawara bade me go with them. I’m thinking the guy whose name I never learned was the guy who had the van that would fit all of us.
I was first taken to a small shop down a tiny residential street that had a metal sheet over what I assumed was the garage. There were also about 100 bicycles strewn around the place.
Hanazaki-san knocked on the metal sheet, which was quickly lifted up from inside. Because one should never judge a book by its cover, I was not surprised to find a beautifully furnished tatami mat-laden living room – with a powerful-looking motorcycle in it.
A woman quickly brought out green tea while her husband prostrated himself on the mat in the most incredible bow I’ve ever seen that didn’t involve a god.
We all drank our tea in relative silence until Hanazaki-san said, “Ah so ka.” (a slangy version of “well…”).
The man in whose living room shop we sat cross-legged, yelled something at his wife who hurriedly ran deeper into the house and came back with a box, bowed low and held it out to me like it was the gift of manna.
I opened it up and stared at what looked like a caramel coloured make-up powder case for a woman. Within, I saw a field of red and something that looked like a plastic lipstick holder. I picked it up and noticed that on the underside it had some Japanese writing on it.
Hanazaki-san plucked it from my hands, thumped it into the field of red and then pressed the lipstick holder onto the back of his hand where it left an image.
“Your name,” he said. “Your hanko (a stamped seal that is used in lieu of signatures).” (see photo above)
After some more tea, we left and made our way to a main street where the Ohtawara branch of the Ashikaga Bank was/is.
We marched directly up to the front window past the line of people where I swear I heard them whisper my name. The bank had about 25 people working in it – including five bank tellers, all of whom were identically-dressed and coiffed beautiful women!
And they all had a lilting, soft singsong voice. I later discovered that all women in the service industry when talking to a customer put on this subservient voice.
This doe-eyed beauty helping us said, “An-do-ryu sensei, ne” (Andrew teacher, eh?). “Hai-iiii” (yesssss? - proounced "hi"), I said and saddled up closer to the teller’s window.
Sensing that they were about to lose us, Hanazaki-san interrupted and got to the heart of the matter - and had her set me up with a bank account and ATM card.
After more green tea and with the paperwork done and hanko-ed by my self, the bank teller (I think it was the same one) read aloud my complete home address and winked at me.
This place is awesome!
Kanemaru-san, perhaps detecting a disturbance in the Force started talking quickly to the teller. Two words I was able to pick out were “ga-ru-fu-ren-do” and “Ash-er-re”. That was Katakana-talk for “girlfriend” and “Ashley”.
A chorus of Ie (“No”, pronounced e-ya)’s lit up the bank as I was quickly ushered out of the place.
Squeezing my enlarged ego into the van - something called a Cherry Vanette – Kanemaru-san and Hanazaki-san mentioned how nice it was that I already had a girlfriend here. How the heck did they know that? I hadn’t seen or talked with her since the bus ride to Utsonomiya yesterday.
The rest of the day was spent driving me around to the local sights of interest – like the grocery store, liquor store and drapery store – everyone smiled, bowed and said “Hello An-do-ryu-sensei” and asked questions of me through Hanazaki-san (apparently he has better shoes than Kanemaru-san.
Later, we parked at my building and made a quick one-minute walk over to the Ohtawara entertainment district via a complex series of narrow alleyways. Although quiet now, I was told the place hums to life when the sun goes down. The alleyways were filled with a plethora of bars, restaurants and something called the London Club, which I was told, was for sukebe’s (sue-ke-bee aka perverts or dirty old men). I made mental notes of its location – but truth be told, since I was here in Japan as part of an international exchange, I was not going to do anything overt to jeopardize mine and Canada’s reputation.
I was always too afraid to go into the London Club in case someone saw me go in there and told my bosses. Who needs that kind of trouble?
Anyhow, I bought some drapes – or rather Hanazaki-san bought me some drapes and came back to my house and made a call. Ten minutes later, the building superintendent came up and said “Hello, An-do-ryu sensei” and installed the drapes for me.
After everyone left, I called Ashley and Kristine and told them about my day – but not about the bank.
I’m sure everyone in Ohtawara now knew about Ashley, and were probably just discovering my infatuation with Kristine. Sukebe.

Somewhere secretly glad I had banking options,
Andrew Joseph
Today's title is a parody of the television show CHEERS theme song - NORM