My Boss

This past Wednesday I had yet another enkai, this time with the Board of Education. It was fairly fancy, really good food, and more alcohol than you could shake a stick at. See previous posts on how Japanese you work with typically react when drunk, and that goes the same for this one as well. What was interesting, however, was my interactions with my boss of bosses, the Superintendent.

Now, this is an interesting man to begin with. He’s the tallest Japanese person I’ve ever met, standing above even me. He’s one of my smoking buddies at the BoE, but never really says anything to me. Every so often he’ll just look at me, say something very quickly in Japanese, and then spend the rest of the break like I don’t exist. Sometimes I worry that he’s yelling at me for slacking or something, but then I figure I’m so far down the food chain that I don’t even rate his authoritative attention.

Then came the enkai, and while nothing has changed (he still ignores me on our smoke breaks), I had some interesting experiences that night.

While everyone was filing out of the banquet hall, Supes (as we like to call him) came up behind Ray and I and asked us if we wanted to join him for a few drinks. He was obviously trashed off his ass, and we figured it would be funny, so we decided to join him. The three of us and some other random drunk dude that never talked to me before went to this small little bar where Supes started drinking when he was 20, and goes there twice a week to this day. I’m pretty sure he’s about 60 now. I’m also pretty sure that the bartender there has been working there every day for the past 40-50 years.

At the bar, Supes kept telling me to drink more and more. I tried to respectfully decline at some point because, well, I had to teach elementary school the next day. He wasn’t having any of that, and so was attempting to, quite literally, force alcohol down my throat. My 60-year-old boss. I guess in the end I couldn’t resist and just kept drinking.

Eventually, as I got more trashed, I decided to ask Supes if he had any information on a teacher in the Joyo school district. Apparently, she’s a kindergarten teacher, was at the enkai that night, and is quite attractive, so I just wanted to know if she was married. When Ray asked for me, you’d think I just punched Supes in the face. He yelled several times “Dame!” which is Japanese for "bad." I was like, what, what’s going on, when he started hitting me and saying “You are now my rival! My rival!!” Thank god Ray was there to translate, as I don’t know what I’d do if I just thought my boss was randomly hitting me.

Thankfully, he stopped, and over the course of the remainder of the night, he would occasionally look at me, yell “DAME!” and move to hit me, muttering something about being rivals. Once I learned what to look for, it was no danger and I could avoid the beatings, but still, I figured it’s never a good thing to have your boss try to kill you over a girl.

Eventually, it was time to leave, but just as we were getting up, Supes orders a 40. Once he receives the 40, he immediately puts in into my trench coat pocket and says “for the way home.” Well, it’s a five-minute walk home, but ok, thanks. And so, we called it a night, having consumed a tremendous amount of liquor (none of which I paid for) and a 40 in my pocket. It was good times. Except for the whole hitting thing.

On a side note, I would like to mention that Japan has no open container laws, so you’re more than welcome to walk down the street drinking beer. However, this is not suggested, as if you live in a small town, no matter what time it is, you’re bound to run into your students, who will see you just as you’re in the middle of taking a swig, and then begin yelling things at you in Japanese… sigh, I am really worried about some of the rumors about me going around the schools.

Weird Little Bastards

So, I am now back at elementary school. In no way is this a good thing. Admittedly, I’m starting to get used to this little bastards, at least to the point where I can make through classes with grades three to six without wanting to shoot myself in the face… or them in the face, either works. However, the first and second graders are still the very embodiment of why god hates me.

I’ve been here a week, and so far, I’ve only been anally violated once and groped twice. While anyone would agree that being anally violated by a 2nd grader is a bad thing, I find comfort in the fact that it only happened once in one week. That’s not to say, though, that other strange things haven’t been happening to me.

Take today, for instance. In case you never noticed, I have a birthmark on the back of my right wrist. If you never noticed, well, then, you’re not a very good friend, are you. Regardless, it’s there, and one little kid in the second grade happened to notice it as I was trying to leave the classroom. He bolts at me and grabs my arm. He then holds my wrist up to his face, and for a moment I was afraid he was about to bite me. Thankfully, all he did was stare at my birthmark for a few minutes. While that’s kinda weird, I’ve faced weirder, and so was willing to let it go for another few seconds.

Then, he sniffed my wrist.

I’m not talking trying to get a minor little whiff of what my arm smells like. Rather, he moved my wrist right up next to his nose and inhaled as powerfully as he could. I could feel the hairs on my arm entering his nostrils. Whatever the reason, whatever he smelled, he must have liked it, because he let out a mighty “YATTA!” and promptly ran back to his seat. I left bewildered.

Later today, I found out what it felt like to be Jesus. After yet another 2nd grade class, for some unknown reason, the little bastards swarmed me. 30 of the kids just ran straight at me, and I was backed into the chalkboard. Then, they all started reaching up, trying to touch my hands. I have no idea why they wanted to touch my hands, but they did. It was as if they were begging me to heal them from some sort of affliction. I mean, I do kind of look at them as if they’re lepers, but I haven’t noticed any pieces of them falling off.

Regardless, none of them would stop reaching up to touch me, even after they got a good grasp of one of my fingers, or my wrist. I yelled out to the teacher for help (in Japanese, I might add) and he just walked away, out of the room, and down the hall, leaving me to try and figure out how the hell I was going to get away from this mob. Even as I slowly started to push my way to the door, the kept me surrounding, pressing against each other to try and get a feel of my hands. I honestly became worried that one in the front would fall, and those behind would just trample him trying to get closer. Eventually, a small hole formed, and I ran out of there faster than I’ve ever run in my life.

I have a third grade class in about five minutes. I’m honestly thinking of escaping through a window.

Improvements... kinda

I realized my Japanese is getting better last night. My speaking is still the level of a 2 year old, but my listening skills are really improving. Take last night. I was given the "Let's Just Be Friends" speech in lengthy, complex Japanese, and I understood almost every word. I would have preferred to realize my Japanese has improved from a lengthy, complex "Let's have lots of sex" speech, but hey, I take what I can get with my language ability.

One Day

Today I learned that I truly have super powers. Admittedly, they’re not any type of super powers that anyone would actually want, but super powers none-the-less. I have the ability to completely immobilize old Japanese women.

Today, I was standing outside my school smoking when a car drove by. As soon as it passed me, the two incredibly old women in the car slowed to a crawl and just turned around in their seats to stare at me. I was rubbernecked like a train accident…

Anyway, they were so busy staring at me that the one completely forgot that she was driving. I tried to force her to turn around my waving my arms frantically and shouting “Look, look!” in Japanese. Really, I think that was counter productive, as they only continued to stare at me, and quite possibly the site of this already strange, large man now waving like crazy may have increased my hypnotic attraction. Since they weren’t watching where they were going, they drove straight into a parked car… thankfully they were driving slow enough that no one was hurt, but still, if ever the world is attacked by an army of old Japanese women, I can take care of it.

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I was walking around the classroom and just happened to notice one student’s folder. Now, I’ve told you about the pencil cases, and as I’m sure you guessed the folders are just as bad, but this particular one took the proverbial cake.

It was styled to look like an English newspaper, specifically the classified section. Now, most of the ads were for lowering your credit debt, or find a high paying job with little work. There was even one suggesting that it could help you find that special someone. But right in the center of the folder, in giant print (as opposed to the small newsprint of the rest of the folder) were the words “BREAST ENLARGEMENT.”

I’m not much of a breast man, but I must admit that most Japanese women would probably benefit from such an advertisement. However, I’d say that a 13 year old girl does not yet need to be worried about purchasing “all nature supplements” to “help increase breast size the quick and safe way.” Then again, she can't read the advertisement anyway, so it doesn't make a whole lot of difference. However, the kid with the bag that proudly proclaimed in large letters "I LOVE BEER!" probably can read that one.

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Today I had a special education class at one of my schools. Special ed here in Japan is… well… not well thought out. For one thing, I’m not entirely sure what the criteria for being placed into a special ed class is. As far as I can tell it’s almost entirely random. I’m also marginally convinced that if a student is just… well… different (as in doesn’t act like a typical Japanese robot at least 50% of the time) then they must have some sort of disability. That’s not to say that some of these kids don’t need the extra help, but others just seem randomly placed.

The teachers are also not the best. It seems as if they attempt to find the teachers worst suited to teach such a class and promptly give them the job. Take for instance my class today with Ass-sensei (I call him that for more reasons than I feel like getting into. Long story short, he’s an ass). Now here’s a guy that shouldn’t even be allowed to interact with other human beings, let alone teach a class.

I went into his classroom and found only one kid seated at her desk. That’s fairly normal, as Japanese special ed classes are typically quite small. About halfway into the lesson (a lesson in which I received no help from Ass-sensei) I started hearing strange noises from the back of the classroom.

At first I was willing to ignore them like the teacher, but after about 10 minutes or so, the bizarreness led me to investigate. I mean, these were not natural noises. So, at the back of the classroom, I found what could only be described as a fort made of desks and tables, cleverly disguised. Looking into the fort, I found four more students. They promptly requested my removal from the area of the fort by kicking me in the shins.

I have since learned that those students spend all day in their fort. They get to school and go into the fort, and do not leave the fort except to get provisions and to leave school. I also found out that Ass-sensei is in his first year, and that last year, none of these students behaved quite like they do now.

I guess I should have figured that Japanese hiring practices weren’t quite right when they took me on, but still, this seems a bit too much in the “No idea what we’re doing” category.

Home Style 3

Day three was about as strange, but for the most part pleasant, of a day as I have had in Japan so far. The day started out innocently enough with going to Izumo Shrine, which was, by far the most beautiful place I’ve ever been in my life. It was just so incredibly calm and serene, I just felt invincible… until of course Arisa started praying for many babies, and I just kind of felt something wasn’t quite right there.

After going to the Shrine, I casually remarked in the course of conversation that I had never been to an onsen. This comment was met with gasps of shock and horror, and so it was immediately decided that we would travel to an onsen.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term onsen, well, I suppose you could google it, but I’ll just give you a very quick rundown. The Japanese love baths, more than they love deadly sushi and working overtime. An onsen is essentially a hot springs, and some can be quite elaborate. The one we went to was outside, and the water was boiling hot, but there was something really nifty about sitting in the water while snow (and eventually hail) is falling on you. I really should have enjoyed it. I mean, they are said to be quite comfortable and relaxing, and I must say I was looking for both of those things when I went.

I found neither.

Before entering a bath, you see, certain things must be done, including cleaning yourself to the point of almost removing all skin. There are certain ways you do it at an onsen, certain procedures and an order of events. I was aware of these things, but I was fearful of getting it wrong. You see, I had to venture into the men’s side of the onsen alone, with no guide. I asked Momma about it, and her response was “Oh, you’ll be fine, just do what everyone else is doing.” The flaw to this strategy was that I would have to be following the lead of a plethora of naked Japanese men.

At times, the Japanese are disturbingly open about their bodies, something I must say I am not. I’m also not particularly fond of seeing naked men. Well, at this onsen, I saw more naked Japanese men than I have in my entire life (and I’ve watched a lot of porn over the years). This, by itself, I could deal with, just close your eyes in the bath and when walking around just stare straight ahead at eye level. I figured this would be standard procedure when in a giant outdoor bathtub. The legions of naked Japanese men disagreed with me.

I’ve become accustomed to being stared at here in Japan. I mean, I’m a large westerner who apparently looks like either Santa or Hagrid. What I am not used to is being stared at by naked Japanese men while I too am naked. And I had nothing I could cover up with, as you do not bring your towel into the bathing area with you. It didn’t matter what I did. I got in the bath, they stared. I got out of the bath, they stared. I tried to cover myself with the small washcloth you are given, they stared. I walked along briskly, naked and free, they stared. No matter what, I had at least 15 pairs of naked Japanese man eyes on me. Eventually I was unnerved to the point that I retreat into the sauna, where you can’t see anything. Unfortunately for me, I found that the Japanese have a high tolerance for heat, and so I think I almost died from being in the sauna for a ridiculous amount of time.

And so, I think I left the onsen more exhausted than I was when I entered. When I related this story to Poppa that evening, his reply was (half in Japanese, part in English, part in gibberish, as we were drinking again) “Of course they stared! You’re a big guy. And I don’t mean just a big guy, I mean you are a BIG GUY!” He said this while thrusting his crotch outward, and then followed it with “If I was there, I probably would have stared too.” Thank you, slightly funny yet also creepy Japanese man.

After some more drinks, Arisa randomly, through use of Momma as interpreter (Arisa speaks almost no English), asked me what I thought of international marriage. At first I was confused, as I didn’t even know where the heck she was coming from, so she slightly changed the question to “Do you think international relationships can work and become a successful marriage?” Ok, listen honey, I don’t think about marriage, so we’ll just stick with the relationships part. I responded that I felt it was possible. It would be more work, but every relationship is work, and usually it’s worth it. I said nationality, culture, race, etc. don’t matter, what matters is how you feel about the person. Your standard answer.

Once I finished my answer, I was going to turn the conversation towards the only person at the table whose thoughts on international relationships mattered to me, but before I could, Arisa went into this giant speech of how she thinks international marriage is a great thing, and it is a lot of work, but it’s worth it, and that it’s a good way to help with language, because if you love someone you’ll work harder to learn their language, and that love conquers all, and she’s really trying hard to learn English… you see where this is going. Thankfully, Momma’s translation abilities were starting to run out and shortly after that it was time to head to bed, as we had to wake up early for the trip back, but I couldn’t help but feel like, somehow, this trip was a setup.

The next day, Arisa and I left. After saying our goodbyes to the wonderful family, we took the 6-hour bus ride (strangely the bus ride was shorter than the train) which passed by uneventfully as our seats were, somehow, on opposite ends of the bus. After the bus, though, I decided I had to ask Arisa something. My… friend… had previously said she was single, but after the events of this weekend, I had a funny feeling, and so I had to find out the truth. So, I asked Arisa “Hey, I have a question, does [my friend] have a boyfriend?” Without even missing a beat, there was a quick yes, said as if, “what? How could you not know? What are you talking about? Why do you want to know? I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME!” I met this girl three days ago… and yet somehow she was able to imply all that in “yes” and a look. After this, Arisa didn’t really talk to me on the local train back, and I got the strange impression that she was feeling just as crushed as I was.

Maybe I should have gone for a sexual massage with Poppa.

However, I will find out the truth of the matter soon, and then, well, we’ll see what happens.

Home Style 2

On the second day of my trip, we went to Matsue Castle, a castle in the town of Matsue (could you have guessed that one). The weather, to most people, could be described as cold… or maybe freezing, harsh, arctic, and painful. Needless to say I loved it. The people I was with however did not.

Around Matsue Castle is a very large, very long moat. Momma decided it would be a good idea to take a boat ride in the moat. I saw no problem with this until I saw the boat, and realized that, should I step foot in this “boat” it would most likely sink. Much to my surprise it did not, but then again either because of my size or the old driver’s intoxicated state, there seemed to be very little steering or movement going on. It was a pleasant boat ride, as far as boat rides go, but was marked largely by the bridges. Many, many bridges. Bridges that the roof of the small boat could not fit under. So, when we would approach a bridge, everyone had to duck down and the roof had to be lowered. This was often done with less than a second remaining before the roof would be torn off.

Unfortunately, like most things here in Japan, the boat (and the roof) is made with Japanese people in mind, not Walruses. And so, I did not merely have to duck my head, I had to dive to the ground and lie still until the bridge was passed, often curled, by pure instinct, into the fetal position. It must have looked ridiculous.

Not much else exciting happened during the day (unless you’re really interested in normal sightseeing type stuff) but in the evening it was time for more, you guessed it, intoxication. However, we were not alone. Joining us was more family members: an aunt, uncle, and three young cousins.

Now, all five of these individuals (including the children, who ranged from 1st to 6th grade) were accomplished martial artists. I found this out when, after the dinner and he’s had a few, the uncle challenged his 2nd grade daughter to a fight… in the kitchen. Now, this, my friends, was, for no other way to put it, fucked up. The result of this brawl (and really, you have to call it that, as the two of them were going all out trying to kill each other) was the little girl beating the shit out of her father. I’m pretty sure he was bleeding from the nose and internally. It was exciting, and slightly disturbing, to watch.

After a liberal amount of alcohol was consumed (this time both sexes joined in, which is good) Momma proceeded to tell me something interesting. Before meeting me, she had asked my… friend… what kind of person I was. When my… friend… hesitated to answer, she instead asked what I looked like. After a few moments thought, my… friend… apparently answered, “Well, sorta like Hagrid, but less beard.”

Yesterday I’m Santa, today I’m Hagrid. Goodbye self esteem.

The final bit of weirdness for that night was when, somehow, we got on the subject of my hair. Questions were asked why I have it long, and if I ever thought of cutting it. Since (much to your shock) I am thinking of cutting it, I was trying to get opinions, should I or shouldn’t I. Poppa was the first to attack the issue saying, “well, you should find out what your future girlfriend thinks.” I was about to say that I currently don’t have a “future girlfriend” because your daughter is screwing with my head, but before I could say that, he didn’t skip a beat between “thinks” and “So, Arisa, what do you think?” She promptly replied that I apparently look good either way, but that maybe I would look better with it short. Poppa, in response, looked me straight in the eye and said, “cut it.”

Now, at the time, I thought nothing of this. It seemed marginally innocent, especially since Arisa is the friend of my… friend… so nothing registered. The next day, however, I soon realized that something wasn’t right, especially when Arisa started praying at the shrines we visited for a “good husband” and “many babies.”

I could not have known…

Home Style 1

For three days, I took a trip to Shimane prefecture in the northwest area of Japan. I stayed with the family of a Japanese… friend… of mine, and it was kind of like a brief homestay. Traveling to Shimane was myself, said friend, and her friend named Arisa.

Before we left, I found out that Arisa’s birthday was on the day we left, and so I felt a little sad for the girl because her birthday was being spent on a train. Being the nice guy that I am, I purchased a small birthday cake to be consumed on the way. I thought, hey, it’s just a cake, there’s no problem. For the three of us, there wasn’t a problem. Yes, they were a bit embarrassed by the stares of other passengers, but it was such a nice gesture (I am the man, after all) that they couldn’t resist. I guess, though, the Japanese have a problem with cakes on a train, because it was fairly obvious the older folks did not approve. Then again, I did make things worse by pulling out candles and trying to light them (which was stopped fairly quickly) but still, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.

When we got to our destination 6 hours later, we were greeted by my friend’s family, Momma, Poppa, and grandma (that was how they preferred to be addressed by me). Momma teaches English, so I was delighted that there was someone I could have a normal conversation with. That didn’t stop, though, strange Japanese/American conversations from happening.

The first night we were joined by a friend of Poppa and his young son (the kid left fairly quickly… thankfully for him). Upon seeing me, the young little tike pointed at me with wide-eyed astonishment and yelled “Santa-san! Santa-san.” Thanks kid. When, in response, I playfully did my best “Ho, ho ho!” the kid’s face went from wonder to horror and he immediately began to cry… sigh…

As is customary in Japan, us three men proceeded to drink massive quantities while the ladies poured us drinks (ah, Japanese sexism). Thanks to the ridiculous immunity to beer I have built since coming here, I was just fine while the other two proceeded down the path of intoxication. I got along really well with the father (who spoke a little bit of English) though sometimes he would weird me out a little bit.

First, he proceeded to give me a lecture, half in Japanese, a fourth in English, and a fourth in intelligible sounds, on why, genetically speaking, opposites attract. I didn’t quite know where he was going, but eventually he launched into how Westerners and Japanese are opposites, and so it makes perfect sense for Westerners and Japanese to mate. Those words exactly (the English he did know was really random). This theme will come back later. Regardless, when he was done with this particular topic, he moved on to what we’re going to be doing over the next few days. I said I didn’t know. He suggested we go for a sexual massage.

Yeah…

After he eventually passed out, I attempted to take a shower in a traditional Japanese home, which is no easy feat. The bathtub, you see, if full of water, as the Japanese love their baths. But the water in the bath is shared by all, so you actually need to be clean before you enter it. So, instead of showering in the bathtub, you shower right next to it. The process is lengthy and complicated, at least for me, but it involved sitting on a ridiculously small stool that caused me to bend in places that haven’t moved in years. I went to bed perplexed and in pain… but that was not the end of my confusion.

Food Consumption

I realize I have not been posting here very often these days. This is due to a combination of laziness, exhaustion, and lack of free time. However, to those undoubtedly few souls who still check this, we will now return to your regularly scheduled Walrus, undoubtedly with a few large updates in the span of, well, whenever I decide to upload them.

Eating in Japan can be quite the experience. The food is an adventure in itself. I never considered my diet to be overly varied. Give me some beef and I’m happy. Give me some fish and I am the opposite of happy: unhappy. I realized though that this would have to change quickly upon my arrival in this country, and to some extent it has. These days, put food in front of me, and so long as it’s not raw chicken, raw horse, or fugu and I guarantee I will eat it.

There are a plethora of things that I still have some slight difficulty with. For example, anything that still has eyes is difficult for me to eat. I mean, as it is traveling down my throat, I can just feel those eyes staring at the inner workings of my body. Octopus and squid, while tasting quite good, still just freak me out quite a bit… especially when the squid is dried, flat, and fully in squid shape, and I must cook it myself on a small grill.

Then there are the big three aforementioned non-consumable foods. All three are delicacies, but not matter what, I cannot get out of my brain the idea that raw chicken is bad for you. Raw Chicken! Who eats this? And why are they not dying? The horse issue, well, I dunno, it just feels like I’d be eating a part of John Wayne’s soul. I think if backed into a corner, I might be able to eat cooked horse, but raw? Hell no.

Finally, fugu. For those of you unaware of what fugu is, I will tell you. It’s a type of blowfish that contains one of the deadliest poisons found in nature. If it is prepared incorrectly, you die. If I’m not mistaken, much of the fish contains these venoms. In order to serve it and not die, you must delicately remove certain parts. A person must get a license to cook it, but somehow that’s not comforting… especially when it’s served raw. I’ll try most things once, but I’m not too big on eating certain death.

Going out to restaurants, though, is one of my favorite activities here in Japan, mainly because cooking Japanese food has become one of my most hated activities here in Japan (I can’t read the labels on food, so I can’t figure out what to buy… and the cartoon character pictures on the packaging rarely help). I typically don’t have too much of a problem going out to eat. Most menus at restaurants here have pictures next to each item, so you can see what you’ll be getting and helps us illiterate folk. Even when a menu doesn’t have a picture, I just usually point at some random food item and say, “please give me this.” The problem, of course, comes when I accidentally point to the drink section and find my meal consisting entirely of a beer, but that has its own rewards.

Finding a place to eat is a little more difficult, at least in Joyo. The restaurants here, for the most part, are hidden, and you must actively search them out as if on a treasure hunt. A disturbing number of them look exactly like a random home, both from the outside and inside. Many times I’d walk into a restaurant only to suddenly become ridiculously paranoid because I thought I walked into someone’s living room. I think maybe that did happen, but for fear of angering the sudden large, hairy westerner that stumbled into their home, the people there serve me anyway.

Sometimes, though, I feel the need to have some good American food. While I feel that need, that’s one thing I can never get. Oh, it’s true, I can go to McDonald’s, but honestly, who really wants to eat McDonald’s food? It tastes the exact same as the McDonald’s in America, but still, going to a McDonald’s here doesn’t quite seem like I’m eating American food. I think the main reason lies in the atmosphere of a Japanese McDonald’s.

All the workers are always, ALWAYS, dressed well in perfect uniforms. There’s always a smile on their face and indeed they seem way too eager go serve you subaverage food. If you plan on eating there, much like a real restaurant, they actually bring you your meal. Then, the two times I’ve been there, when I got up to throw away my garbage, I was immediately surrounded by two employees forcibly stopping me and insisting that this was their job. I cannot, could not, imagine the day when such a situation would happen in a McDonald’s back home.

Then, there’s the single, most beautiful thing about Japan ever: you can smoke there. I love this country.

Some American restaurants that you’ll find here aren’t quite what you expect. A Big Boy just opened in Joyo. That’s right, a Big Boy. Of all the random chains to open in a small town like this, well, I’m confused. Still, it’s definitely a Big Boy. The building looks just the same as the ones back home, complete with the statue out front. After five months of being here, my cravings for a burger, or a waffle, or, well, just anything that doesn’t remind me of Japanese food and is not McDonald’s kicked in, and the moment it opened I swear I was the first customer there.






Then I saw the menu.



It is a Big Boy. I’ve made inquiries about this. It is owned by the… um… Big Boy Corporation or whatever. Unfortunately, when coming to Japan, Big Boy decided to remove anything that even remotely appeared to be “Big Boy-like” food and instead turn it into… something else entirely. To say that I was disappointed would be a bit of an understatement. I think I died a little inside that day.

Goddamn, now I just really want a cheeseburger… at least a real one…