Fluff

So yesterday I almost died. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday mornings I wake up with the thought, “I hate my job… and I’m cold.” And like any other Tuesdays, I woke up with the same feeling.

I hopped into my car and made my way to work. Comin’ around the mountain as I came, I suddenly hit an icy patch. My car screeched out of control and spun 360 degrees into the other lane. My car didn’t flip over, nor run into any oncoming vehicles.

After gathering my stomach I continued my way to work… my thoughts?  ”I hate my job… and I’m cold.”

This is totally unrelated, but I thought this was fun:


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25 countries, baby… 11% of the world. My goal is to visit at least 50%. Booyeah.

My 10 Year Reunion will be Tubs o’ Fun

Have you wondered what ever happened to that failure from high school? My dad said he was a complete “slacker” during his adolescent years. But now he owns a multi-million dollar pharmaceutical factory. With 4+ years of university, even you can avoid being a loser!

I was reunited with an old high school friend in Tokyo last weekend. I hadn’t seen nor communicated much with Cherie since graduating at the notorious Dangerous Mind’s school… aka Carlmont High School. No joke, this movie was actually based on my school… but that’s a totally different story. Anyway, before seeing my long lost friend, I began to reflect on my times in high school… High School – the age of teenage angst and confusion. High School - the realization that life isn’t the Cinderella story we hoped it would be. HIGH SCHOOL - the all encompassing dramatic bullshit one gets caught up in… feeling stifled, suffocated, jaded. I loved it. So much I could fist myself.

As the weekend approached, I looked forward to escaping from the middle of butt-fuck nowhere to the largest city in Japan. Yet, my thoughts toward seeing Cherie was one of excitement… but nervous excitement… You know, the kind that gives you mild diarrhea.

Looking back, we were never really all that close with each other. Sure, we shared moments such as the all important student government and the occasional high school party. I think the only thing that we could pinpoint as a ”breaking through” moment was one of those cheezy team-building activities we were involved with. We actually cried together… It almost needed a Full House soundtrack in the background. In other words, we’ve only known each other during a time when we were so unsure of ourselves… making mistakes whilst everyone being completely aware of our immature decisions. Although I was aware that four years of university comes with challenges, maturity, and growth, my idea of Cherie remained frozen in time as the extremely cute 3/4 Japanese gal who cried when I was going to submit a bad picture of her in the yearbook.

Some things never change… or do they? I met her and her friends at Starbucks (out of all places) in Shinagawa station. She looked exactly the same… still that extremely cute, playful, bubbly girl that I knew in high school. We hugged, filled with nervous tension and uneasy eye-contact, and began our conversation about old high school friends and the gossip that came along with it. ”‘So and so’ is now married… but in a way, everyone is sorta still the same,” Cherie said, slightly rolling her eyes. I agreed in a way… maybe she was still the same girl who would cry if I posted an ugly photo of her on the internet (not that it’s really possible, Cherie … I’m just being facetious ).

Every winter for the past four years I would get together with a bunch of old high school friends and do a pot luck thingamadilly. But after some time, I began to think, “Dude, this guy is a bigger shmuck than he was last year. And this crazy ho? She’s a bigger ho now than she ever was. Man, I’m so fucking glad I’m no longer in high school.”

Five tequila shots can totally change one’s perspective. After downing some alcohol at a club called “Pure” located in Shibuya, Cherie and I were completely free and uninhibited - dancing dirrrty amidst the sea of awkward stepping Japanese (they just stand there). Our all encompassing high school world suddenly exploded into the mind-boggling universe. There was something different between the two of us… Maybe it was seeing each other outside of our hometown context, but once we moved on from our high school convo, we talked about things that mattered…. We were more at ease… we were more ourselves.

Perhaps we are still ultimately the same immature, hormonal teenagers of yesteryear with a slight weight fluctuation and a different hairstyle… but for the better, we have grown up, have had life experiences, and blossomed into the doe-eyed young adults we are today. Although we will never truly understand each other’s personal journey the years during or after college, things ultimately change… most of the time, for the better. As Cherie said in her post, “when I think about high school, i have mixed feelings.  besides a few really good friends and a lot of hilarious memories, i walked away with the knowledge of exactly what kind of person i did NOT want to be, or be around.” 

I like Cherie… not that I didn’t like her before. I just like her more.

It seems as if we tend to view things/situations/people where we left off. But for better or for worse, people change. Actually, I don’t really like the word “change.” Although we sometimes unknowingly hold onto an image or an idea of someone in our past, people tend to grow from the last time you saw them.  It’s just even better when two long lost friends end up growing in the same direction… And who knows, maybe that loser in high school with the bad acne and the choking BO will have grown into a multi-millionaire Rico Suave. Hmm… on the second thought, probably not. But one can always hope and wonder, “What ever happened to…?” 

Cherie… thanks for making me feel like “home” in a crazy little place we call “Japan” .

“Gay” is Not an Adjective

            “Dude… that’s GAY.”

            I refuse to be referred to as STUPID. As I reflect on my past experiences with slightly ignorant heterosexuals, the simple phrase of “that’s gay” has become prominent in the colloquial speech of young suburbanites. I’m well aware that many of my fellow North Americans are unaware of this derogatory slandering toward my fellow flamers. In fact, some are probably even fun-lovin’ liberals or gay mongering fag hags. Yet the words “that’s gay” has other social implications, negating the social strives that homosexuals have accomplished in order to attain respect and equality.

            You might as well say, “Dude… that’s Black.” Although it may come across that various homosexuals are being “overly sensitive” to the sophomoric quip of “that’s gay,” attempt to step outside of yourself and replace the word “gay” with a word that is associated with your own personal identity. It may be “Latino,” “woman,” “Christian,” or even “white republican.” Regardless of what identity you choose to substitute, attempt to connote your identity to the meaning of “that’s fucking stupid.” Note: results may vary… say, if you’re an obese, one-legged mime, or the Fast and the Furious‘ blonde-hair, blue-eyed Paul Walker. You may or may not be slightly offended, depending on how cold and bitter your heart is. Nevertheless, at least you stepped outside of your own bubble in a fruitful attempt to understand the position of your fellow fruit friend.

            My best friend, Suzie, confronted a fellow American in attempt to slap some sensitivity into the poor sucker. After the words “that’s gay” spewed from a juvenile salesperson’s mouth to his fellow co-worker in regards to something or other, Suzie immediately responded with, “What do you exactly mean by that?” He then had to explain that the word gay meant stupid, which my friend then spouted off with, “What if I were a lesbian? Then you would be equating me with everything that’s stupid in this world. I find that extremely offensive.” The salesboy reacted like a large phallic object had suddenly probed him. Granted that I was somewhat embarrassed by the situation, her brash way of approaching the that’s gay statement opened my eyes to the underlying social implications this phrase possessed. In other words, it has the potential to offend someone. The word “gay” shouldn’t be treated so flippantly, nor be used in jest.

            Gays shouldn’t be the butt of jokes – no pun intended. Yet, mainstream media has the ability to present such matters as mockery. The other day I ventured on to apple.com/trailers to satiate my quest for ultimate brain stimulation in this mountain hideaway. What struck me as interesting were the various teeny-bopper previews, glittered with garish colors, flawless Aryans, and various gay jokes. Take the preview Eurotrip for example. Synopsis: Four friends are taking a backpacking trip around Europe (hence the title), encountering zany antics including incest, absinthe, and an overtly homosexual, Mediterranean predator who gets his kicks by groping young men in dark tunnels (he’s even fixed with a lacy garter belt). Or take the preview for Club Dread, where good-looking white people are in a tropical paradise, only to be knocked off one by one by a psycho killer. The preview shows a snippet of a closeted gay groping a fellow frat bro. The point being, what sorts of images are being presented to the masses? Sure, some of these jokes or images may be construed as merely “harmless,” such as the television show Will and Grace. In fact, I chortled a bit from the painfully bad preview of Club Dread and its comment on closeted manly men itching to find some cock-to-cock action. Nevertheless, many of the negative portrayal of homosexuals in mainstream media, as well as the “that’s gay” crack, have an impact on forming opinions and perpetuating stereotypes. 

            I’m not suggesting for liberal minded folk to rise up in arms and reap havoc in response to movies like these from being screened. If anything, I’m asking for those prudish North Americans to sexually liberate themselves from this ridiculous standard of male masculinity. It seems as if the “that’s gay” comment or movies such as Eurotrip and Club Dread may be an indirect backlash in order to defend the essence of “male sexuality” amidst the progressing women and gay rights movement, the bourgeoning style of metrosexuals (males who actually care about their appearance but are straight [note: the TV show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy), and the declining image of the All-American, rugged Marlboro man. Or, maybe it’s defending the puritanical upbringing many Americans have felt accustomed to, causing many men and women to repress their curiosity of nob-to-nob/cooch-to-cooch action. Well, WAKE UP EVERYONE… gay experiences don’t necessarily make you gay.

            Moreover, I’m not condoning the practice of sexual promiscuity. If there is any “real” point to this article, it’s the importance of sensitivity and respect to every categorical grouping, albeit race, sexuality, and so forth. Yet, some may respond with, “Well, does that mean I have to walk on egg shells with everything I say?” The answer is “no.” Just don’t be stupid.

            “That’s gay” or any gay jokes have the potential to be funny. But why? Could it be that it’s hilarious to believe that two members of the same sex happen to be attracted to each other yet cannot act on those “taboo” desires in fear of facing oppression or encountering incidents like Matthew Shepard? I think not. In other words, there isn’t a reason for it to be funny. And that, my friends, is fucking stupid.

Sumo Satisfaction

Note… I wrote this for my prefectural newspaper… it’s a bit long winded, but if you kids are interested… ENJOY.

Who knew fat bastards could be so damn appealing?

After two lovely days at Lake Hirata, my friends and I packed ourselves pleasantly into the automobile of Mr. Papke. A day later, we magically arrived into the city of Fukuoka -the land of ramen and karashi mentai – fish eggs packed together which resembles that of either a pink leaches or an underdeveloped seal fetuses. Yet our desires for that sunshine Saturday morning was not to indulge in the various delectable delights Fukuoka made available for our foreign palette. Rather, we were in search for some sumo satisfaction.

Bamboo rods with colourful banners waved at our arrival. A crowd of Japanese and foreigners crammed together before the entranced. And after some hubbub, we entered the pearly gates of Fukuoka Dome. The actual auditorium where sumo took place resembled somewhat like a basketball arena. Instead of a court, there was a stage called the dohyo, which is an 18 foot compacted clay square that is 2 feet high. Instead of a scoreboard, there was a suspended roof of a Shinto shrine. And instead of tall, slender men running around, there were two fat men in diapers going at it.

My friends and I ventured to the backstage area of Fukuoka Dome to get an up close and personal view of these beef(y) men. The mere presence of the behemoths puts one in complete awe. They stood before us like glazed butterball hams – their perspiration glistened ever so slightly beneath the gritty fluorescent lighting. Their gargantuan bodies emanated an aura of stoic preparation and baby powder. Their hair was perfectly coiffed, slicked back and folded upwards like a mini-moray eel. These were sumo wrestlers.

“Hot dog, they’re fat!” I screamed with boyish glee.

They weren’t real to me. They reminded me more of those mascot animal things that you find at amusement parks – strolling around and making children cry. I expected them to suddenly take their expressionless heads off to reveal a 19-year-old red head with braces. But this was the real deal.

“Do you think I can take a picture of them? I’m afraid they’ll eat me,” a fellow JET setter joked. And after a couple snapshots, we returned to our seating arrangements to satiate our sumo endeavours.

There’s something sensual about two large men clawing and groping each other’s curdles of flesh. It’s as if sumo is somewhat like a wild mating ritual – where two parties engage in ceremonial, instinctive foreplay before making slapping sounds and bending into precarious positions. It’s almost like watching whales make love… Actually, I take back the entire sensuality part of sumo. But sumo is definitely titillating. There’s something arousing about seeing such an abundance flesh rippling like curds of whey when a sumo dude tumbles to the ground. There’s so much strength and power that I almost expect a big gong of thunder to explode from the heavens when an opponent crashes. The bigger they are, the harder they fall – not to mention, bigger the applause. Hip hip hooray.

Bout after bout, the crowd’s anticipation grew wildly until the big guns are brought out. And man… Musashimaru is one big muthafucka. But bigger ain’t always better. The 250 kg Hawaiian dude arrived in his teal manashi (silk diaper), looking quite sullen and concerned. And yes, sullen and concerned he should be… this bout ended up being his last professional sumo match. A smaller big boy, Tosanoumi, with his boyish good looks and smaller, yet cunning size, overtook him. Actually, “overtook” is probably the wrong word. The match was more like Musashimaru gingerly stepping out of the ring like one of those hippos sporting a tutu in Disney’s Fantasia. The crowd was disappointed. The royal purple zabutons were chucked like Frisbees toward the ring. It was an extravaganza (except I was pegged in the head).

All right, I admit that the tone of this article may be construed as bit of a mockery, but please… don’t get me wrong. Sumo is, with all silliness aside, beautiful. Its beauty isn’t necessarily seen in the actual bout, but the deep cultural tradition that stands behind it. The kesho-mawashi, worn before the tournament, are silk aprons embroidered with stunning designs and hemmed with a gold fringe – costing anywhere from 400,000 to 500,000 yen. The yumi-shiki, performed after the tournament, is an impressive “bow-dance” which expresses the satisfaction of the victories performed on that day (all information has been taken from the “Sumo” pamphlet given to us at the gate). And these are only two examples of deeply symbolic rituals that take place in Sumo… and I haven’t even mentioned the split-toed socks, the one-legged stamping, and the spitting of water. Besides, you can’t do anything but give deep respect for a sport that has dated back some 1500 years while maintaining much of its traditional etiquette.

Sumo is a complete novelty; it is a part of Japanese culture that should be experienced first hand. It’s filled with so much cultural tradition that its ritualistic presentation leaves feelings of enrichment, appreciation, and grandness. It’s obviously more than just fat men wrestling. Sumo requires preparation and control, precision and agility, dignity and respect. And although the men aren’t hot to trot, they are, somehow, grossly appealing. So strap on your garters and eat a pound of karashi-mentai… go see sumo.

 The Complacency Conundrum

My wit is dull, my mind is blank, and my existance is nothing but a mere twig.

It has been a while since the last time I wrote in this… Actually it’s been a while since I’ve had any intellectual forethought since my arrival here in Japan. It wasn’t until recently when I started reading y’all’s posts when I suddenly realized that I was drifting through life like a twig up the swanny river – ok that was a crap metaphor, bur it’s been a while. But to be perfectly honest, reading various blogs sorta stressed me out. I haven’t been doing much reading, nor writing these days… and  I realized that I was becoming too complacent with who and where I am. Sure, having smug self-satisfaction may be great, but it seems like complacency is a form of idleness… acceptance… passivity. Is this necessarily a bad thing? Perhaps it isn’t, but aren’t visionaries plagued by the constant drive to be better, to make a change, to “rock the boat?”

Whoops… I forgot. I came to Japn to pursue the very intentions expressed above, but I found that life in my remote mountain hideaway has made life seem more like an easy bake oven. In other words, life is ridiculously simple. How can I be bothered to analyze the different dynamics of societal issues when my neighbors are wild monkeys and boars, for Pete’s sake? The latest drama in my life was my Japanese neighbor (other than the monkeys and boars) hearing my gay porn when I forgot to close the window – he came over to ask if I wanted to drink some brewskies with him. But to get back on track, my life revolves around my teaching job, lesson plans, and chokin’ the chicken. My life is now a ritual; I feel as if I’m confined to my daily schedule that includes tending to various social obligations, cooking rice, and dealing with my own weariness. How can I make a difference in the lives around me when I’m having a difficult time finding personal time for myself?

Ok ok… I know what you all are thinking. Teaching?! That’s the perfect outlet to inspire young minds, promote social change and ingrain my dogmatism. (I’m always right.) But how can I when 1. My Japanese language skills is the equivalent to a new born babe; 2. my students know just as little English as I do Japanese; and, most importantly, 3. I’m a guest in this foreign country?

There’s one student who insists that I call him “Rambo.” He’s obessesed with the US Navy Seals, and other militant congeries such as SWAT, the US Airforce, and (my favorite) the Green Berets. He knows random words like “camouflage,” “AK-47,” and “Apache helicopter.” However, expressions such as ”that’s fun,” “sad,” and ” violence is not the only means to solve ethnic, religious, or political differences” is completely at a loss for “Rambo.” How am I suppose to flex my moral righteousness when there’s this blasted language barrier in the way? Do I show him a picture of an Iraqi orphan weeping beside his deceased, blood-stained mother, and explain that they’re only ”collateral damage?” Moreover, how do I explain that butt fucking between two members of the same, or opposite for that matter, sex isn’t necessarilly morally corrupt? How do I instill motivation for students to follow their own dreams, to have an opinion, to be an individual? Then again, are my intentions right in the first place?

My experience here in Japan is entirely subjective. Like I said before, I’m a guest in this country. This culture revolves around a sense of social cohesiveness and what looks like uniformity. I feel as if I should merely observe the locals around me like an avariarist with binoculars. Hmm… two giant leaps forward: I guess this is where the mentality of colonization comes into place. Cultures and religions are constantly preaching their word on top of their soap boxes, dictating their “correct” way of living life. Whose to say that my way is the right way? Isn’t this where we’re supposed to embrace our differences?

Maybe I’m not always right, but I should be. Maybe there’s a time and place for everything in regards to action and reaction. Maybe I just need to be that twig floating up the swanny river for the time being, and prepare myself when the rapids approach - aka America. Maybe I should stop saying maybe. All I can do is take my experiences in Japan and amalgamate their particular cultural and social practices when I return to the states. OR, maybe I could just learn the language and start from there. If anything, I think living in a foreign country is about observing, interpreting, and understanding cultural differences. I just hope I can find a way to reciprocate what they’ve given me so far… but at this moment, I feel more like a twig bobbing around in the Pacific ocean than down the damn swanny river.

Ah, sigh. Ok, I’ve had enough. It’s good to be back… but as you can tell, I’m a bit rusty. Oh, the picture on top was taken on a beach in Japan. The sand squeaks cuz it’s so damn clean. Wulp, see you later.   

OHIO!

I’ve just been informed that I will be teaching English in Japan this August. Oh happy day. Oh happy happy day.

Happy Trails to You

Ok… so my internet has crashed the past two entries, so hopefully this time my computer won’t be treatin’ me like a bitch…

Anyway, so my stay here in this city of silicone, bleached blond bimbos and their sugardaddies who drive H2 Hummers is coming to a quick close. Although Los Angeles is like a cubic zirconium - shiny but fake - it has been quite a dazzling experience… From the crazy hobos in North Hollywood, to the flaming, pretentious fags in West Hollywood, to the hoochie mama’s who wear stilletoes with a bikini top on the Sunset Strip… This urban sprawl has a special place in this kid’s .

Even USC ain’t too shabby despite the saturation of Orange County kids and their Jags that daddy bought for them. Not to mention the girl who sat behind me in class who recently got a nose job. But if anything, I will miss the ridiculous parties thrown by my close friends at the infamous Orange House. For example, here are photos from last week’s party:

From left to right, there’s me and D’a in Jen’s room preparing for the evening’s festivies. You can see the excitement in my face. To the right is the sudden influx of college students. The following photo you may see the North Star… better known that evening as LAPD’s own helicopter. Then the coppers came out with bean bag guns and shot into the crowd. However, that still didn’t disperse us rowdy kids… as you can see with the following photo the next tier down… the crowd lit softly by the circling helicopter overhead. The next pic are the coppers being hardasses in front of Orange House after they got rid of the peaceful students. Jen found such comfort of the soft drone from the copter that she had to meditate. And the last photo shows the oozing beauty of Poop Johnson and me after being totally shit faced. Not very flattering indeed. However, I did see Poop Johnson punch that guy in the face. Hot dog… This party even made it in the Daily Trojan, our school newspaper. Ah, college life.

Yes, I’m well aware that this entry lacks the forethought than my previous ones. Forgive me… but as I realize that I will be returning to the Bay Area in less than two weeks, these past four years of my life has been the best ones. Los Angeles, pretentious and materialistic it may be, is enriched with diversity, art, and happy hours at multiple bars. It’s a playground for college kids, finding anything from amazing underground House parties, to drag shows, to even being someone’s date on Mtv’s Sorority Life 3 that will air next season. Opportunities are endless here, unless your’re a starving actor starring in student films and working at the Cheesecake Factory. Poor saps.

I’m not the one for poetic words, but my college experience has been, like, totally life changing. From acquaintances to life-long friends, rejection to acceptance, and depression to expression, USC will be a chapter in my life worth writing about in my future memoirs: the Gasian Invasion. Ah, what an ending.

…until we meet again. 

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Heart palpatations from the Red Bull

Glaucoma forming from staring at this screen

Senioritis

…I’m not going to finish this paper on time…

There will be a Brief Intermission

I’ve got two 10 page papers due on Wednesday and I haven’t started. I’m in trouble… My British friend sent this to me a couple weeks ago. I couldn’t help but chortle at how weird Americans can be. Wowza.

I suggest you click on the picture to get the full affect.

Enjoy life while I’m away.

You’re beautiful, but I’ll just think of you when I jack off

I’m procrastinating… plus my brain is still trying to function properly after this weekend. Whew…

Do you ever have one of those mornings where you ponder profusely about what to wear? Like, should you wear that white, stretch poplin Banana Republic button-up or that tight blood red Paul Frank t-shirt with a picture of a barbecue on it? Should I wear the sand colored suede Liam flip flops or the retro suede Pumas? Should I wear that g-string that I got freshman year, or go commando? Why should I even care? I’m so gay…

The point being, I feel as if many of us folk, me included, are preoccupied with this constant presentation of oneself like those of a peacock in heat. All for what? To wander to my classes and take notice of the cute boy who’s wearing a tight black tanktop and an enormous bulge emanating from his low rise jeans? Bah. We take notice of each other in passing, but what if you do see that cute girl with the peter pan haircut, or that boy with the eyebrow piercing? Do you even do anything? Perhaps turn around, cry out “Hot damn muthafucka!” and point your finger at them like a smoldering gun?

Nothing ever happens (this, of course, is outside the context of clubs/bars/whorehouses). We continue with our lives and perhaps dream up scenarios of how we’d present ourselves, what they’d be like… or just use them for lustful desires later that evening.

Someone told me that New York City is one of the most loneliest places. I somewhat agree… passing thousands of faces everyday, occasionally connecting through a fleeting glare of cold apathy… “Oh, I like her shoes.” And her humanity is measured by the price of dead cow skin…

So I’ve learned not to really care if my shirt isn’t completely pressed, or my precious tendrils of hair aren’t coifed to the best of its ability, or that I have a cum stain by my fly. Whenever I find myself berating my boyish good looks, I stop and think 1. Hmm, I’m not that unattractive, and 2. if someone found me attractive in passing anyway, what would it matter? They wouldn’t really do anything. Maybe creepy prolonged eye contact or a pat on the ass. It’s all arbitrary. In other words, people could really care less what you look like since no one is going to remember you anyway… unless you have a massive goiter on the side of your neck.

I’m sure there are a lot of holes to this argument, but I’m proposing two things: 1. Pink is hardcore, and 2. Make eye contact with me and acknowledge my humanity, damnit. Smile out of friendliness, open that door out of kindness, and treat me with heart… otherwise I’ll kill you.

Peace in the middle east.