The Noborito crew hit Shibuya last night ... About ten of us rocked up to the 300-yen standing bar at 6pm and my mind is made up / there's going to be trouble; met a guy in the washroom line-up who worked backstage for Cirque du Soleil! He spoke four languages! Bill taught me, as per my request, some filthy British slang. There was a wide-eyed dreamer of a Japanese boy telling me gentle things like, "Chelsey sucks but Manchester United, I LOVE them," and sadly smoking Lucky Strikes. Helen lorded over the table like a 17th century queen, pouring drinks, procuring cigarettes, and instigating games. Matt became famous for his laundry detergent t-shirt, making friends with an entire table of Japanese girls based on this fact alone. Later, among Shibuya's twisted back alleys, we find an izakaya and muscle our way in, demand more beer. I think it was all-you-can-drink. I decided to Network and made several contacts with writers and photographers, but all I have to show for it today is some vague scribbles in my notebook about train stations, uncertain dates in May. Matt wanted me to come to Air to dancedancedance but instead I went back to Shibuya station and got lost for half an hour. Back in Noborito some Japanese boys gave me a lighter, and the station master, when I tried to pay the extra money for my ticket, waved me through the turnstile.
If someone had told me 24 hours ago that a romantic comedy from 1987 starring Cher and Nicholas Cage as star-crossed Italian lovers not only worked but rocked the house, I would have slammed my coffee mug onto the nearest available surface and launched into a diatribe as to why there was no possible scientific or logical precedent that could allow for this to happen. But behold! Norman Jewison's Moonstruck brings me to my knees. If I was Catholic I would go to confession and beg forgiveness.
Matt and I started this film with cynically gleeful anticipation, readying all of our usual catty remarks and holier-than-thou commentary. Twenty seconds into a gorgeous opening credits number of yellow-tinted New York architecture and dreamy skyline silhouette, we fell silent. This was Woody Allen, only gentler.
Cher is practical, hot-headed, and engaged to Cage's brother, whom she doesn't love. Cage has a wooden hand. He has beard stubble, poor grammar, and loves the opera. She cooks him bloody steak in his apartment while the brother is in Sicily, and before long half a bottle of whiskey has disappeared and Cage sweeps the crockery off the table, kicks it over, passionately embraces Cher, and starts dragging her down a hallway.
"Where are you taking me!" she screams.
"To the bed!" he shouts.
Theirs is the central story, but Jewison deftly plays the supporting cast off each other, creating love triangles and betrayals galore. The old married couple become enchanted by the full moon, and the wife, stout and wrinkled, gazes at her husband and says, "Do you know, in that light, you look like you're 25 years old." The plumber has an affair and tells his adoring mistress about the benefits of copper piping as she hangs on to every word. The spurned wife has dignified dinners alone, asking people occasionally, "Why do men chase women?" She concludes that it is because they're scared of death. And then, when her own chance at love approaches, she pulls back and says, with finality, "I know who I am."
Cage's performance steals the show. He overacts with superb extravagance, lurching through scenes in a dirty white undershirt and a stutter, before admitting things like, "I love the opera." He falls in love with Cher in a heartbeat, and tells her a heartbeat later; ridiculous as this is, he makes it work, and in a hot way, too -- whoever thought that Cage could be sexy? With greasy hair, no less?
The pacing is pitch-perfect, the scene transitions excellent -- perhaps the best example is a cut from after Cher and Cage's second night together: we see Cage softly placing the needle on a record player, and cut to Cher ambling down the street in her red heels from the night before, kicking a crushed beer can.
Moonstruck won a bevy of Oscars, one of them for Best Screenplay. The writing is phenomenal, and Cage fits it like a glove. Perhaps love can be summed up thus:
"Love don't make things nice. It ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and GET in my bed!"
UPDATE
(I know I really shouldn't find this hot, but I do.)
- "I miss Mexicans." (Some guy at a work meeting. There was context, but I forget what it was ...)
- "It was like, I was farting. Again, and again, and again, and again." (Same guy. He'd accidentally broken a minor traffic law and had gone to the office to get someone to call the appropriate authorities for him, and everyone in the office was staring at him and laughing ...)
- "This shit kinda reminds me of abstract art." (Joe, watching Matt scream karaoke using a distortion setting on the microphone.)
- "Would you please STOP saying beer-OH. It's pronounced beer-U." (James)
"But I'm Italian." (Me)
I spent an afternoon in Yokohama yesterday, killing time between a meeting and a work party. Yokohama's a much nicer city than Tokyo or Kanagawa: clean air, creative architecture, and heaps of green space. I wound up on a bench in a park beside Yokohama Stadium, eating freshly baked shrimp chips I bought from a street vendor. Stray cats ambled among the cobblestones and tulips; an old man walked by with a dog and he actually had a slight smile on his face. Such a refreshing change from the grimly suicidal work ethic atmosphere of Tokyo!
And then, at the periphery of things, I saw a shambly-looking man skulking in the middle of a tulip patch. The old man with the dog saw too, and stopped abruptly to watch events take their course. I sighed and got ready. If there is a sketchy-looking man in a park anywhere in the world, he will find me.
Before long he had wrenched a tulip out of the earth, and held it up to the sky, studying the bulb. The old man got an incredulous look on his face. I merely waited.
The man staggered up to me and thrust the tulip in my face.
"For you!" he announced, in English.
"It's okay," I said, in Japanese.
Then he muttered something else in a different language entirely, and I realized he was probably Chinese -- Chinatown was two blocks away. He started rocking back and forth and swinging the tulip gently in my face. He wasn't drunk or high, just crazy, and I kept my eyes trained on the old man with the dog, fascinated, wondering if he would come to my aid if needed. He stood transfixed, like someone watching an angel, or a stripper.
Eventually my friend collapsed on the bench beside me, sprawling himself over my backpack. The old man shifted his weight slightly, indecisive. I brushed the salt off my fingers, put the twist tie back on my bag of shrimp chips, eased them into the top of my backpack, and stood.
"Ohhhhhhhh," said the man. He held out the tulip one last time. "Goodbye."
I was asked the oddest question in the world two days ago: Who is your favourite baseball player?
How to answer? I don't know the names of any baseball players, favourite or otherwise. After a long pause I said Babe Ruth cuz I finally thought of one. Confusion ensued, and explanations were called for, and in a panic I changed my mind and shouted, "No, no, I meant Joe diMaggio!" purely on the basis of his immortalization in the Simon song (Where have you gone Joe diMaggio? / A nation turns its lonely eyes to you / etc.), but this only seemed to heighten the confusion ...
Saw a dead pigeon on the train station platform. This is not the kind of thing a hypochondriac living in Asia wants to see!
Off for 99-yen sushi in a bit, with the gang from Muko. I've not had a drink in four days and don't intend to until tomorrow, at a party in Yokohama. And then it will be a moderate drink. Drunk.
*Ahem* Name, please?
Joy
Date of expulsion from mother's uterus?
Summertime. Morning.
Heritage?
German for sure. The other side is a nebulous, muttered riff of possibilities, Irish, Polish, and Jewish being the top contenders.
Eye color?
Blue.
Hair color?
Brown.
Birthplace?
Vernon, BC, Canada. I mean Redneckville. But with heart, you understand. Redneckville with heart. And trucks.
Current location?
Kanagawa, Japan. If I walk ten minutes to the river I'm in Tokyo.
Is your muffin buttered?
My mother once worked in a muffin shop. She was overqualified and had a boss who treated her like shit. It was in the early 90s so you could still smoke in public places, and Mum would return home from work coughing. The head baker used to smoke in the kitchen, and occasionally, when you sliced a muffin open, smoke would come out. I don't really like muffins.
Would you like us to assign someone to butter your muffin?
No, but you could assign someone to butter your mom's muffin ...
When's the last time you cried?
A couple of days ago, when I met a group of kids who had so many difficulties and yet had such big smiles it made me feel ashamed.
What's your poison?
Earth.
iPod or CDs?
A cheap-ass MP3 player that I bought for 20 bucks in Akihabara.
What arm do you wear your watch on?
Left, but only at work. I don't like to wear a watch at other times.
Personal style?
Post-punk hippie? Ragamuffin socialist?
Do you wear socks to bed?
No. It's an awful feeling. Worse than fingernails down a chalk board.
Speaking of beds, twin, standard, queen, king or California king?
Oh my God, I *wish* I had a bed! One day I'm going to write an entire update detailing all the things that are wrong with futons.
What do you currently have in your pocket?
My keys and a blue lighter.
Favorite TV show?
Kids in the Hall, lately.
Fav bands/genre of music?
Anything creative and unexpected. At the moment I'm digging underground Canadian stuff, and blues and country from the 40s.
Favorite place?
Shimokitazawa. In bed with Matt. The smoking lounge. The river by Shukugawara, where you can dangle your legs over a wooden pier.
Cappuccino or Coffee?
Coffee.
Do you Smoke?
Sadly, yes.
Drink?
On occasion. Lately I'm a fan of peach chu-hi.
Drugs?
Not on your life! The average prison sentence for cannabis possession in Japan is seven years. A bunch of Canadians actually got busted a couple months ago for cannabis and cocaine possession, and the scary thing is, there's nothing the Embassy can do to help them.
Where do want to go to college?
Oxford, for a Master's in Writing.
Your thoughts on marriage?
Complicated. It's not for me, but it pisses me off when people try to regulate who can and who can't. If you want to you should be allowed to.
Do you believe in true love?
Yes. Ah, Princess Bride!
Do you believe in fate?
Yes, but I think it's changeable.
Best way to travel?
When I was a teenager I hitch hiked around the Gulf Islands. That was good. But at the ripe old age of 25, I'm not sure I'd have the guts to do it again .... Okay, challenge! When I get back to Canada, I WILL HITCH HIKE YET AGAIN.
Do you get along with your Parents?
More or less. Mostly. I love them both heaps.
Do you consider yourself intelligent?
If I'm in the mood.
Do you like getting mail?
Yes! Oh my God, I crave it!
Best foreign accent?
Scottish or Irish. By a long shot.
Ice cream in cup or cone?
Cup.
Brits or Aussies?
Oh dear. What a complicated question! What I need to decide is, do I piss off the Aussies who read this blog, or the Brits? Actually maybe there's only one Brit. So .... But really, guys, hats off. You rule. What?
How do you want to die?
Firing squad. Shouting, "Long live the Republic!" between puffs from a hand rolled cigarette.
What do you fear?
Mental silence. Does that make sense? Thinking so much that you shut up.
Would you rather sport a bad dye job or a bad wig?
A bad dye job. It's been known to happen, and sometimes, you know, it's okay. Like grey hair, you know? Grey hair can be okay.
Your favorite kind of chips?
Well, I love chips. All varieties. Cheese Doritos are pretty sweet these days.
Favorite movie?
So many. But of all time? Maybe a tie between Casablanca and City Lights.
Is Harry Potter evil?
I don't know much about the guy, actually. I've not read the books, not seen the movies .... He seems like an all right chap.
Do you play an instrument?
No. I would like to learn to play the guitar, but am currently too lazy.
How many times have you been to Disney World/Land?
0. No interest. Disney culture appalls me, if you want to know the truth.
Are you a reader?
Obsessively. Books, tarot, and body language.
What does a typical Friday night for you entail?
Usually there is karaoke, trains, and chu-hi. Last night there was also rockabilly and sardines!
Olive Garden or Red Lobster?
I've not been to either of them. And I've never eaten lobster.
Pen or pencil?
Pen. Dark green ink.
Forks or spoons?
Forks, but these days I usually use chopsticks.
Did you used to wet the bed?
Yes, but my mum says I was 2 or so when I stopped.
Where do you buy your clothes?
Uniqlo. Various vintage shops in Shimokitizawa. Socks? The 99 yen shop! Booyah!
Do you look like your parents?
Quite a bit like my mum. And I've got my dad's hair.
Favorite swear word?
For me to say: for fuck's sake. For certain New Zealander fearless leaders to say: bloody hell.
How old were you when you learned how to ride a bike?
Four or five? My dad bought me the bike unexpectedly, and my brother Clint taught me how to ride it.
Cats or dogs?
Dogs. Especially huskies.
And finally, Why do you think we are on this Earth?
To experience.
You know who is kind of unexpectedly cool? Sheryl Crow. Example: Like Steve McQueen / All I need's a fast machine. Who knew?
A long, cool week at work. A downside is that I have to get up pretty early, and thus go to bed earlier -- what have I become -- so I've been hanging out less, but M and I finally bought a DVD thingie for our computer, so once again we can wile away evenings with snacks and beer and films! I've missed that more than I can say. This week alone we watched Shall We Dance? (Japanese version), The Princess Bride (greatest movie of all time!), Idiocracy (an intriguing movie from the director of Office Space, starring the luscious Luke Wilson), and The Last King of Scotland (a disturbing and excellent film -- see it). Bam!
Last night I headed solo to the Antique and Junk and had a beer with a couple of the regulars. Hiromi joined me, and I wound up telling the guys that I'd gone to the kendo club at one of my high schools the previous day and taken a lesson. They were very impressed and asked me to demonstrate a move, which I did, only to be stopped by a roar from behind the bar: "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Masa doused his cigarette and grabbed his sword and came rushing up to me. "No!" he shouted again, and gave us a dazzling, though short, taste of his expert kendo skills, his sword swinging and slashing dangerously close to the lights, and antiques ...
"I took Kyokushin karate when I was in high school," I said.
"You are a charming woman," said the Artist.
Hiromi and I headed to a wine bar for an intense girl chat which left us both reeling: neither of us talk to women very much ....
Back at the house, Helen ambushed me in the entryway and karaoke plans were made. Twenty minutes later six of us headed out: dangerous, liquored up, and incredibly good-looking. Most of the people were blonde. We sang for two hours, and ended with me rapping the Street's "Fit But You Know It" while a bunch of British people sang the chorus! This is among my favourite karaoke moments ever!
Just watched Masayuki Suo's 1996 film Shall We Dance? and was impressed to no end. This is a film that says so much about modern Japanese life, with particular regard to the difficulties that lie in balancing work and family life, and the sexual repression that lurks behind the decision to give every kiss, hold any hand, express any endearment, in public or private. To me it was a primarily sociological film, with a clever under-current of dance-dazzle and physical comedy.
I've not seen the American version, but watched the "making-of" special feature about it. The American version seems trashy, glitzy, and light, with none of the social undertones of the Japanese version. Several of the people involved in its production talk glowingly about how this remake was about celebrating dance, and the idea of changing priorities as one ages. I don't think anything can be further from the truth! Contrasting the life of a repressed American lawyer with an repressed Japanese salaryman is no easy matter. The traditional and sociological backgrounds of the two types are so diverse as to be impossible to portray with a nearly identical script. An American lawyer does not have to appear subservient to his colleagues, does not expect complete emotional submission from his wife, and does not have to mask any indication of individuality -- as his Japanese counterpart usually does. Likewise, a Japanese salaryman generally is not judged by physical appearance, and is not bound to as much emotional allegiance to his family, as his American counterpart might be. So to splice the two types into an identical script seems foolhardy to me -- especially when one is created in the spirit of self-exploration, and the other in pure entertainment (the Pussycat Dolls, for fuck's sake?).
And to cap it off, a comment from reviewer James Berardinelli:
"Shall We Dance? proves that Japanese film makers can fashion charming, feel-good movies every bit as effective as their Hollywood counterparts."
Yeah, dude! Rock on!
1) A little girl, about one foot high, swathed head to toe in a bright pink rain slicker, slogging wearily up a steep hill as the rain poured down. She looked like a miniature drag queen Buddha who had seen it all.
2) A man at the train station with bushy black eyebrows that formed perfect triangles.
I've got no idea why I haven't updated in the past week, but I feel bad. Here's some words.
Went for karaoke with James and Adrian. I sounded APPALLING! Had a marvelous time.
Made a mighty soup. Bought a tiny tin of soup stock for over eight fucking dollars Canadian. Priorities.
Went to a penis festival with some girls from the House. Later, a cherry blossom party at Yoyogi Park! We sat on the grass drinking chu-hi, and could feel the trains rumbling underneath us as they forged their dastardly way through the subway.
I'm having an absolutely fantastic time at my new job! Wish I could fill you in on the details. I am known to the students as 'Sensei Sushi' due to remarks made in my opening-day speech ...
Went bowling with Joe and his roommate. Well, I drank and smoked and watched them bowl. Humbling! I was in the presence of talent, ladies and gentlemen. I hardly ever hang out with people who are athletically talented. It was awesome. They like got consistent strikes and stuff! Joe said that back in the States he used to have an actual wrist-guard thing!
Smoked cigarettes and drank chu-hi on the front stoop with Helen as we watched Mike skateboarding. I don't think I've watched boys skateboarding since high school. It was all so gloriously New York summer. But, things took a nasty turn as I drank more and more and then a heap of us went for *one hour* of karaoke which became two, etc, then I woke up in the morning gloom and thought:
1. Where am I? Ah, home. Good.
2. Who's this guy sleeping beside me? Oh, it's Matt. Whew.
3. What day is it today? Monday.
4. Hmm, Monday. There's something important about Monday. But what? Oh, it's my first full day of teaching at my new job.
5. Er, what time is it? Sweet, 6:45.
6. But, what time do I have to leave the house to catch my train? Uh ...... 6:40!
Shitty, shitty times. Because I am a Virgo I actually *did* make it to work on time, but I was unshowered and red-eyed, and actually had to tape the hems onto my work pants on a train platform. Brutal.
A night at the Antique and Junk with Matt, Mike, Joe, James, and Hiromi. Practiced my Japanese a bit with Masa. Later at the table, initiated a completely misguided conversation re: Swallow or Spit?
Walked along a river somewhere taking pictures and feeling one with nature. Also like a Blemish. Nature is maddeningly pure.
Good looks are a fascinating animal indeed.
Most days of a given month, I feel reasonably/passably good-looking. This is a tricky sense to maintain in a country like Japan, where men stare at you all the time, with the same expression, and it means either a) they think you are a filthy foreigner, or b) they think you are sexy, or c) your fly is undone, or d) they are baffled that, although you are a woman, you lack both high heels and make-up, or e) etc ..... Three or four days of the month, I feel so ugly that I'm surprised people don't openly jeer. AND THEN -- there is the ONE day of the month when I tend to feel TOTALLY HOT. Like today. And the weird thing about feeling totally hot is that people react to it -- not the look, but your attitude. Because, clearly, I always look the same -- whether I feel normal-looking or ugly or hot, my face is pretty much exactly the same as it always is. But when I feel totally hot, I act totally hot -- I smile more, make gentler jokes, have extremely carefree body language -- people respond in like. So different than the cynical scathes (word?) of my normal days, or the neurotic panic attacked Fear of my ugly days. My point is that I need to bottle and market Totally Hot.
Then, too, are the days when I feel TOTALLY LIKE JEFF GOLDBLUM. The following awesome composition is courtesy of Rye-Dawg. I believe he calls it Separated at Birth:
Use the 1st letter of your name to answer each of the following...They MUST be real places, names, things...NOTHING made up! If you can't think of anything, skip it. Try to use different answers if the person in front of you had the same 1st initial. You CAN'T use your name for the boy/girl name question.
Your Name: Joy
Famous Music artist/group: Janis Joplin
Street name: Johnson St.
Gifts/present: Jewelry -- particularly, an antique green bead necklace Matt bought me a couple of months ago. Out of the blue! The best kind of present.
Vehicle: Jeep. So tough and sexy.
TV Show: Jeopardy. One day, I will be competing on Jeopardy.
Boy Name: Julian.
Girl Name: Joni.
Alcoholic drink: Jim Beam and Coke.
Occupation: Japanese English Teacher.
Celebrity: Joyce Carol Oates. She's a celebrity to ME, dammit!
Food: Jam. I guess. Peach jam.
Something found in a kitchen: Jesters.
Reason for Being Late: Juniper trees on the highway.
Something You Shout: Juliet ruined the play!
God, I can't get the word encapsulated out of my head -- it's running through my internal monologues with absolutely no respect for me or my wishes. Damn! I hate this word.
Matt and I both recently read Kafka's Metamorphosis, and the inevitable squabble followed: what would each of us do if the other suddenly turned into a cockroach? I was adamant that I would care for him as long as possible, and as a drastic final action, would set him free in some rural locale where he could finally experience peace and normalcy. Matt, however, said he would put me in a cage and tour Europe, charging very high prices for people to look at me. We began to quarrel more urgently, culminating when I showed Matt the following picture --
-- claiming that I look exactly like Jeff Goldblum in it: in fact, so similar that it would be possible to be mistaken for his daughter. Matt vehemently disagreed, and this angered me even more that the prospect of spending the rest of my life in a cage. Readers, please: what do you think of the picture? Be brutally honest. There's a lot at stake here.
Second day!
I'm split between two schools, alternating weeks, and today I went for the ceremonies and such at my second school. Humiliated by the language gaffes of yesterday, I entered the staff room with a huge arsenal of new phrases, shouting out to anyone who would listen, "I'm happy! This tea is delicious! What's your name? I like sushi! Nice to meet you!" Everyone was reacting and stuff and understood, and I felt so VINDICATED, until .... They started talking back to me. Very rapidly. Asking questions, in most cases. Not only was I completely lost, I had also forgotten how to say "I don't understand ...." One lives and learns, I suppose.
First day at my new job!
Privacy considerations will prevent me from commenting too much about my work, which is too bad, but I'll try to give you some vague updates on it from time to time.
First: I work in a junior high school, and I have my own desk in the teacher's room! With a filing cabinet and heavy tomes of learning, and teaching supplies! This excites an academic nerd such as myself to no end, ladies and gents.
Today I had to give a speech in front of the entire school, in Japanese. I use the term 'speech' rather whimsically, but I did manage to make myself understood. It was a kind of bracing reminder that I've got to become serious about learning this language: in my previous job I taught conversational English all day, interspersed with chats with English-speaking co-workers and staff. Now, I'll be teaching all sorts of English, in tandem with a Japanese-speaking English teacher, and sharing a staff room with dozens of other Japanese speakers, so the age of 'geting by' with the rudiments of a language has ceased!
Case in point: only two of my co-workers smoke, and they are both older men who speak primarily in Japanese. I asked if it was okay if I joined them, introduced myself, and .... to my horror realized that I did not know how to small talk. I wanted to say simple things like, "Chilly, isn't it?" or "It's been quite hectic this morning," and realized I had absolutely no idea how to do so. I can make my way around a restaurant or train station or shop in Japanese, but a smoke break? Blast! I sheepishly compared cigarette brands with them and looked contemplatively at a concrete wall.
Also, I knocked over a chair on my way to make my speech. But, did not fall down (or up) the stairs to the podium, as I had feared.
Yes, that would be ME on the giant wooden phallus. At a fertility festival! Good grief.
And, price list for the lollipops:
