Bugs

“Excuse me. Mr. Luke?”

“Yeah?” I lifted my head from my bowl of Udon.

“Well, uh, do you like turtles?” He gleamed into my eyes as if his question was the most important question ever asked. He had a piece of shitake mushroom stuck to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I like turtles. I had one when I was a kid.”

“I have a turtle.” He looked at me and smiled. He licked the mushroom and pulled it into his mouth.

“Really? Cool.” All the other kids looked at me and smiled.

He kept on smiling then began to nod his head. He was getting excited. The other kids all looked at me and smiled.

They weren’t looking at me.

“Look!”

He pointed over my shoulder and I turned around.

“I found her in the mountains. Her name is Maya.”

There was a turtle all right. For how much longer I’m not sure.

Maya was by far the most cooped up creature I have ever seen. His aquarium was a clear plastic box with a piece of Styrofoam thrown over the top, and held down by textbooks. His feet hit the walls, and there was a film beginning to crust over the top of the water.

Its been a while since I’ve owned a turtle, but I don’t remember them smiling. At least not like this. Maya didn’t just smile, she had a massive grin. If she had them, it would have been ear to ear.

“Maya? How did you come up with that name?”

“Well, I found her in the mountains. And Yama is mountain in Japanese. And if you put the ‘ma’ in from of the ‘ya,’ you get Maya.

“Cool. Maya is a good name.”

“So…when are you going to keep Maya until?”

“Until she dies.” Another kid from across the table chimed in. Maya’s owner agreed.

I kept on eating my Udon. I wanted to tell the kid that the principal wanted to see him right away, and take the plastic box and set the poor bastard free. I know it was smiling, but it was probably just genetic.

“We take it out sometimes.” The other kids nodded.

“She likes to play in the grass.”

“Do you have bugs in America?” Its amazing how quickly topics can change in Elementary school.

“Yeah, sure. We have a lot of them.” I said.

“What kind? They all stopped eating and stared at me, hinging on my reply.

I got to be honest. My Japanese is pretty good these days, but these kids know their bugs inside and out, and for me to bust out “bees” and “worms” like a rookie, would make me look like a complete ass.

“Ahh...... King Beetles.” That’s the one cool bug I know. It’s the beetle with the massive horns / pinchers on their head. The kids love them. They practically shat their pants when they heard they were in America too.

“Wow! Next time you go there can you bring one back? Do they look like the ones here?”

“Yeah, just like the Japanese ones.” I was already lying. I’ve never seen a king Beetle in the states. But I should have told them, ‘Yes, we have them. And they’re the size of cats.’

“You want to see mine?”

He took me over to the windowsill where the afternoon sunbeams cast upon mayonnaise and peanut butter jars filled with dirt and soil.

He showed me his King Beetle. It was almost as cooped up as Maya. He pointed to his pinchers and made pinching gestures towards my face with his fingers and groaned as a monster would.

The other jars were filled with grubs, worms, caterpillars and ladybugs. He was so proud of them. Then he said that since summer is on its way, he couldn’t wait to catch a praying mantis. I told him that killing them in the states is against the law, and he gasped.

He grabbed one of his empty jars with the plaid lid with holes poked in the top and scoffed, “I don’t hurt my bugs!”

Throwing Practice

My hometown football team looks like garbage this year. In their last game, the Philadelphia Eagles had more yards taken away from them in penalties then they had in yards gained. It looks like this could be a long winter for Philly fans. I Cringe everytime they take the field.
Everyday I visit a new elementary school. 29 in all here in Miyakonojo. Its different everyday, but so much of it is exactly the same. All the kids run up to me, touch my hair, pull on my shirt, and ask me how tall I am. Then they start touching my arm amazed how long my arm hair is.
Before each class, I give a 15 minute schpiel that explains me: My name, my hometown, the food and the sports I like. First I tell them that I like baseball. The Japanese know baseball. Over the last 30 years, baseball has become as much of a national pasttime as Sumo. After I make a connection with the boys in the class and they see that we have a common interest, I flash a picture of Donavan McNabb at them.
"What sport is this?" I ask.
"Rugby!" Then I pretend to get mad and they laugh at me as I shake my head saying, "No, no no!"
Then some kid from the back rown blurts out "Ame Futo!"
This is a short for American Football. From here I go on to explain that Americans like myself don't say Ame Futo for 2 reasons:
1. We dont know what an 'Ame' or a 'Futo' is.
2. We also don't need to say 'American' before 'Football' because it's our sport. We know we invented it.
Then we run through the pronunciation of football which usually dosen't work out so well. But they try and their psyched to learn a new word that's not a day of the week or a kind of animal.
After that I ask if anyones ever seen Football on TV. They shake their heads 'no.' Then I ask if anyone's ever played Football. Of course, they say no. Then I reach in my bag and pull out the highlight of the day.
"Wahhhhh!" They scream almost in unison.
I tell everyone to stand and were going to practice throwing the Football. They can't believe it. Throwing a real live American Football. In the classroom, none the less.
I typically stagger the line going boy/girl so the boys don't monopolize the time. Also this ensures that the girls don't skip out. Otherwise, they'd be huddling in the back of the room giggling as the boys wing the ball back at me.
For kids that have never seen a game much less handled a football before, some of kids could acutally throw. Some by just wathching me throw the ball a few times figured out the hand and body positioning to make a pretty decent throw. Some actually spiral and hit me in the chest.
Then theres the others.
'The Underhanders:' Typically girls who just lob the ball to me underhand. The upside to this is that the ball gets to me and leaves the window behind me intact. No broken windows or noses yet. Knock on wood.
'The Double Underhanders:' Usually influenced by the way one throws a rugby ball. They're always subject to scolding and to remember that this is NOT Rugby.
'The Wrist Flickers:' These guys see me throw a spiral. My spiral is not tight, nor is it accurate, but I can throw one damn near everytime. Attempting to recreate the phenenomon thats my spiral, they seem to think that flicking ones wrist in an inward motion while throwing their arm forward, will make the ball spin on its side in a spiral. Whats left is a ball spinning, but in the wrong direction. Its never a good throw and usually lands somewhere not in my vicinity.
Today, one class was particuarlly inthused about Football, so I brought the ball out to recess. The girls asked me to play catch with them first so I was obliged. Perhaps the longest 20 minutes of my life. I've never seen such fear over a thrown ball before. Everytime I threw from 5 yards out they scattered and ran in the opposite direction of the ball.
On the dot, the boys jumped in to fetch me after 20 minutes. Quickly the disaster of throwing practice with the girls turned to an astonishing display of poise and ability by the boys.
I know girls probably everywhere in the world would react the same way to football, so there's nothing new here. But the boys rocked it. Id go as far to say they did better than what Ive seen from American Kids their age. They were throwing spirals within minutes simply by watching me. One kid, who stood about 2 feet shorter than me but about 10 pounds less, had seen a football game with his father before and insisted we do 'lineman practice.' We stood shoulder to shoulder and I let him push for a good 45 seconds til he gave up, lying on the ground exhausted.
Between the Good, Bad and Downright Ugly, these kids weren't bad. Overall, I was impressed. Maybe I should start scouting overseas so the Eagles can actually win a game.

Dick and Jane

When they rang the door bell it was 4:30 in the afternoon, and I was in my boxers. Still in a sweat from riding home from work, I ran to my bedroom, hiked on my board shorts, and staggered to the door. I was halfway finished putting on my t-shirt as I opend the door.
I think we both took a step back. I was just as suprised to see them as they were to see me and my hairy stomach.
Well, maybe not.
Their ankle length black skirts and pink ruffled blouses were a dead give away. You know, I fly 8000 miles from home, and they still wear the same shit. I haven't read it recently. OK, never. But maybe they left out the importance of stylish clothing in the Bible.
They both looked at each other and snickered, unsure of what to do next. They nodded a few times looking for me to make the first move and speak Japanese. After I spoke, they exhaled. They asked me if Japanese was OK.
Before I knew it I was at a fork in the road. If I turned one way, I'd be lounging on my couch watching a surf DVD within minutes. Then I looked down the other road. It was black and ominous, leading to a land where unwanted guests stay for hours and drink all of your tea.
Yeah, I can speak Japanese. Ordering food, everyday situations in the workplace, and sometimes even a political conversation. But the vocabulary to have a Dogmatic debate? I know phrases like, "Yeah, but...," "What if...," and "That's complete and total bullshit." But If these two were coming in my house, I wanted an arsenal of Biblical and religious vocab.
"Sorry. I dont really speak Japanese." It was a clutch decision.
"Hai," they nodded to one and other, and the one standing closest to the door took a step back. It looked like they were retreating. Even the Good Lord couldn't penetrate this awkwardness. I began to close the door and feel the cool breeze of the rotating fan hit my back again.
"English?" said the woman in the bonnet standing in the back.
I'm not a religious man. In the past decade, I can count on one hand how many times I've been to church, and they've been for weddings or funerals. All of which had an open bar reception afterwards. But slamming the door in someones face, whether you want to hear what they have to say or not is wrong in my book.
"Uh, Yeah." I wanted to make it clear that I did not speak Japanese. The bonnet lady rifled through her black leather handbag, only to pull out the English translation for their good word. She bowed handed it over to me.
Again, 8000 miles away, and there's still the white suburban family on the cover, lying in the grass at the park. Two middle-aged parents. One Boy. One Girl. Both blond. They were playing with their new Beagle puppy.
She cracked the pamphlet to their mission statement. My mind was made up that a prolonged conversation was inherently doomed. So there was no way this pamphlet with Dick and Jane on the cover was going to make me quit drinking.
I skimmed the text and allow me to paraphrase, but it said something like, 'How good is your life? And do you know how much better it would be if...'
I had enough. I wasn't interested, and looking at their brochure was more for their benefit than mine. As nicely as I could, I bowed and said, "Sorry, maybe next time." They understood. They continued to smile and moved along. I heard the doorbell ring nextdoor.
Maybe if I cleared away the clutter of beer cans and sat them around my table so they could tell me what they believe in, maybe my life would actually get better. Maybe I closed the door to the single greatest spiritual oppourtunity of my life. But the contrasts of of the situation were just too strange. Not just culturally as in the "Japanese Christian," but the whole encounter visually. Two women dressed in the most conservative, western style clothes stood at my door and preached the Bible, as the biggest Buddhist temple in the city sprawled out just a matter of feet behind them. Not at all to say that Buddhism is greater than Christianity. But, the whole situation at its core, was a bit of a mind fuck. It was like someone trying to sell ice cream during the dead of winter in Alaska. It just didn't work. But like I said, at a different time, a different landscape, a different lifetime perhaps, who knows, maybe next time.

Gateway Engrish

Between my trips to Japan, people in the states would often kid and nudge me with words like, "Ruke," poking fun at the typical mix up Japanese people confusing their "L's" and "R's." Some people find it really funny when they check out of their hotel in Tokyo and see "Key Dlop." Or maybe they laugh when they're looking for some cold cuts in the supermarket, and see "Dericatessen" on a sign above.

But come here for an extended period of time and that kind of stuff won't even phase you anymore. The L's and R's? That's what marijuana is to crystal meth: Gateway Engrish. Come down to southern Kyushu and you can get the hard stuff.

Last week, Meg and I were invited to go shopping in Kagoshima, a nearby city of
600,000 people, to go shopping with a couple other girls. Meg asking me to"facilitate a friendship," and translate while they looked at fur hats, high heels and one piece suits that most mothers would never let their daughters walk out of the house in. It was three against one, and the girls insisted that I go. I needed to go shopping like I need a hole in my head, but I agreed.
The first couple of hours of shopping went smoothly without a personal meltdown. As Meg can attest to, when I go shopping, my body shuts down. I get headaches, I begin to walk slowly and drag my feet from shop to shop, and I constantly yawn. Needless to say, I'm a terrible shopping buddy. But this time, the "Engrish" got me through the day. The shirts with gibberish splattered on them are limitless. If they're good enough I'll often buy them. The other day, I bought a shirt that had a band of monkeys surfing on clouds with swords. Under the picture, a caption read:

High Stouthearted

I fight against bad guys with lots of other self on top of cloud.

There's two kinds of people in this world. Some that look at this kind of stuff and shake their head and walk away. Then there are others who look beyond the shirt and ask the bigger questions:

Who made this?

Why?

How did something like this get to production?

Who the hell wears this stuff without picking up a dictionary first.

Or a copy of Hustler.

Enter the boutique, "Laundry."

Its one of a thousand boutiques that are packed to the gills with slutty women's clothing and unrevised Engrish shirts.
At this point it was around 3:00. My lower back was killing me. But I put on my nice face and browsed. Meg sifted through a rack of shorts. The other girls were in back, looking at socks or something. Out of my peripheries, I noticed a pregnant women, probably six months along or so. Her and another woman working the floor were picking out an outfit for her. The clerk held up a long dark brown jacked on top of a long maternity shirt. Under the jacket, I noticed a couple of Roman letters, so I moved in for a closer view.

Then I took a step back.

Then moved in again.

They laughed, smiled, and nodded to each other about how cool her new outfit was.
I stood behind a rack of bras, peering over at the shirt. I shook my head and pulled Meg over for confirmation.

She glanced and looked away.

We looked at each other with our jaws dropped, then parted ways to individually process what we just saw.

In my introduction to this blog, I always assumed it would be an over 18 audience. Who knows what hands my words will fall into, but my words are in no way meant to offend.

"Cocksucking."

Sorry, I had to say it. I was as shocked as you are. I mean whats to say? A lot actually. For one, she was about to a buy a shirt that said, well, "cocksucking" on it. Everyone who I talk to agrees. It was not enough that she advertise herself as a cocksuck'er', which strangely wouldn't be as bad(?). But she felt so strongly that she needed to advertise the entire activity. She wasnt just representing herself, but the entire act as one. Not just the Yankees, but Baseball.

There's part of of me that wanted to save her. What could I have done? I think my Japanese is pretty good at this point. But to find an unintrusive way to tell a pregnant woman that shes about to buy a shirt with "cocksucking" written on it? She thought the shirt was so cool. Like really cool. The shirt WITH the jacket? Forget about it. I would have crushed her. You know how pregnant women can be. Which is worse? Crushing her vision on her unbelievably explicit new purchase, or letting her walk out of the store with it?
I didn't have the heart.
So I hung back in the shadows and watched the transaction. The deal was final.
She was going to wear it. I'm so glad I bore witness. Call me dark, but knowing that someone is roaming the streets in something like that, well, its pretty awesome.

Every clothing store I enter, I sift through the tshirts, hats, sweatshirts, and occasionally maternity shirts, and find nonsense. Sometimes I laugh out loud and the people around me stare. Sometimes I just snicker. Other times shirts are just nonsense, with stray words phrases and random pictures covering the front and back. Sometimes to the point where I get a headache trying to make sense of it all.
Then other times a gem comes along. I saw the process from start to finish. She had the shirt, loved it, didn't question it for a second, and bought it. There was absolutely no regard for what was printed on the shirt. Completely trusting the store and manufacturer that what they were selling was legitimately cool and harmless. Ignorance is bliss.

Engrish after this? Maybe there will be a second coming.

Japan Unplugged

For the entire last week, my coworkers and my friends tracked Typhoon Man Yi that spawned off the southeast coast of Japan. Everyone made a big deal about it. Teachers discussed about evacuation procedures as the schools vice principle passed out copies of the path of the Typhoon. A couple of years ago they learned that it is better to be safe than sorry.
In the late summer of 2005, Typhoon #14 (creative, huh?) rocked the island of kyushu and sent Miyazaki and the surrounding prefectures into hysteria. Water was knocked out for weeks and massive land slides sent homes tumbling into valleys below. Even today, two years after #14 struck, roadwork and landslide recovery projects are still being done to repair the damage.
I guess they have a right to be scared.
Man Yi hit last Saturday and its now Tuesday. Needless to say, we're OK. In fact, the day after Man Yi hit Miyazaki, Meg and I were swimming in the sea that just the day before had 10 meter swells.
But as it didn't rock Miyazaki like #14 did, it was my first real typhoon. And as it wasn't as big and nasty as everyone had expected, when I looked out the window it got me thinking. I've seen Colorado storms of marble-sized hail that can shatter windshields, northern canadian squalls that can make the armies of mosquitos retreat to their homes, and Thai rain spells that are so off and on, its like God is lounging in the clouds laughing, flicking the weather switch with his big finger.
All of those storms, no matter how pecuillar they were, they seemed to have some common aim of to their madness. But a typhoon? If I had to give it a personality trait, I'd say its clinically insane.
Meg and I, after we watched our 2nd of the 8 movies we rented, we looked outside and decided to take a stroll around the block and get up close and personal with Man Yi. After looking at the dripping window pane for long enough, we were sure that it was not risking life and limb for us to step outside. So she threw on my extra large rain jacket, and I put on my best hawaiian shirt. We pryed open my front door and stumbled out into the wind.
We'd yell to hear each other as we made our way down the steps to the street. At first the wind was defening. Then it stopped. It caught me mid sentence yelling, like I was the guy with headphones on that was talking too loudly. Then, it started to blow again. It seemed to blow down one street, then made a quick turn then roll down the opposite side street. I looked up at the cherry tree of the temple that hung over my road. It shook back and forth irratically. Then it stopped. Then it started again and its leaves shook like a pompom, like the neck of a doll getting strangled by a little brother.
We walked down the street and were met with warm wind, then chilly wind. We trudged through the leaves and branches that filled the streets. Occasionally, a city car drove by, and gawked at Meg in her oversized fire engine red raincoat, and then me in my rainsoaked turquoise aloha shirt.
During the gaps, the transition periods when the typhoon was wondering which way to blow, there was a dead silence. No buzz of neon billboards, no storefront vendors welcoming you in the door. Just nothing. Maybe this is how it sounded during these gaps before Japan met the west. Everyone was inside listening to the buzz of their TVs, Meg and I went for a walk around the block and saw Japan unplugged.
Meg and I made our trip around the block and ran upstairs to plug back in. We had more DVDs to watch. But we kept staring out the window and watched the cherry trees shake. We'd be in mid conversation and the wind interrupted, screaming as if it needed attention. In a country that is so ordered and regimented, its nice to see that, even just for a day, it can still get a little chaotic when it wants to.

Better Half

Last Thursday, Meg arrived in Miyazaki. What a time its been so far. There's no way A blog entry couldn't tell you how good it is to have her here with me. So the last week has been great. But Meg and I have a bit of cabing fever. Poor girl. Not only does she globetrot to see me, but her first week in Kyushu was nearly straight rain capped off with a Typhoon that hit yesterday.
She's still smiling though, can you believe it? What a sport.
We woke up this morning to scattered dark clouds with bright sunshine. Yeah, the weather here is a bit bizarre. But now the wind out of the east has pushed them away and were headed to the coast. She dosen't know where I'm taking her. Not like she ever knows. I could tell her the names of the places Im taking her, directions on how to get there, and the fee to get in and it would still be a total suprise. Kind of cool I think. But anyway, were going to the coast and were going to see the sun, damn it. Coming from a sunfilled place like Boulder, CO, where a friend of the family once told me that it was TOO sunny, this girl needs some sunshine.

Little Bo Peep & Dracula

Whether I’m driving down the street, slurping up ramen, or scouring the supermarket for the right kind of detergent, people always stare at me. I never get mad about it, or go so far as to ask them what they’re looking at, but I can’t help but wonder. It wasn’t like this in Tokyo.


Four years ago, I lived amongst the other 18 and some odd million. And when you have some freak dressed up as a Japanese Dracula, or a Little Bo Peep sitting next to you on the subway, suddenly the foreigner sitting next to them doesn’t look so strange.

In fact, I didn’t know that Miyakonojo, or better yet, even the entire prefecture of Miyazaki actually existed. I was put here randomly, totally by chance. Actually, when I applied for this gig I was asked to put down my top three choices of where I would like to be placed. All of which were somewhere close to a big city. In the end, I got Southern Kyushu: Hundreds of miles from bustling streets where the foreigner is just another face in the crowd.

I’m in a basin, known here as “The Bonchi.” Surrounded by mountains, highlighted by the beautiful volcano of Kirishima off in the distance. As the mountains keep Miyakonojo and its surrounding cities well insulated, the winters are chilly and the summers cook. After about 45 minutes of driving too fast, I can be on my surfboard in warm waters that are back dropped by misty mountains. In 30 minutes, I can be hiking a volcano where at the summit on a clear day, one can see the dotted islands off the rugged Japanese coast.

Miyakonojo is no Podunk hillbilly town of one noodle shop and general store. There are 180,000 people within the city limits. But for some reason, it still maintains a friendly, laid back atmosphere that I’d be hard pressed to find in any other city of equal size. The people are still very warm and outgoing, and yes, as I said before, they like to have a look.

Although I’ve gotten comfortable being the sour thumb walking down the street, sometimes I can’t help but wonder, “What are they looking at?” I talk to my friends and coworkers about last night’s episode of 24, CSI, and Desperate Housewives all the time (In case you were wondering, yes, they are dubbed, and the voices are hilarious). Why is the color of my hair still so strange?

Maybe I haven’t done enough staring. How about some of the strange things that I see?

So you may get some stories about some bizarre t-shirt I found in the infant section with a camouflage swastika printed on the front (the store selling the shirt was completely unaware of it’s historical significance). Or maybe I’ll tell you about my boxing sparring session, where my nose was split wide open, turning the gym into an absolute bloodbath. Or maybe I’ll tell you about how I climbed Mt. Kirishima and had instant ramen on the top with a total stranger. This place is full of tales. I hope you like em.

So here I go.

From now on, they stare, and I’m going to stare too. This is what I see.