It sucks. That's what comes to mind. After the world's hardest exam, or, to be fair, the hardest exam I've ever done, I'm sitting here pondering the f word and how to peel my carcass off the floor and get back up on that horse. It hurts. It's really hurts. I want to write something clever and witty and caustic to conceal my anger and disapointment at myself, but after today's effort I'm not feeling particularly clever or witty or caustic at all. So, goodnight. Wishes of peace and healthy discounted cash flow calculations to you all.
Today's tale was not recounted to me personally, but to my fine co-instructor Jin (he made a cameo appearance on Tokyo rush a while back). It was told to him firsthand this day, by the story's protagonist her very self. Has anyone heard of hole-in-one insurance? I googled it just now and was surprised to find I'm just about the only one in the place who hadn't until today. It's probably superfluous to now mention I'm not a golfer. However, Jin's first student of the day was, and announced to him she got a hole-in-one on the weekend. Hooray he exclaimed. She didn't share his enthusiasm. To be blessed with a hole-in-one in Japan is, at the same time, to be shackled with the tiresome obligation of sharing the good fortune. It's where share the wealth really means share the freaking wealth, even though technically speaking there's no newly acquired wealth to be shared. Regardless, the handouts started with the caddy. He souths 10,000 yen, which is about $A120 because, you know, he played such a crucial role in the entire event by standing there and stuff. Then it's back to the clubhouse where she has to not just shout the bar, but throw a party for everyone in the joint. And buy them a lousy little gift in reward for simply being there. Crazy. Then there's some other expense on top of all that like tossing gold plated clubs into the crowd or ceremoniously driving a crystal golf buggy into the water trap or whatever you call it. All up it put her out of pocket some serious scratch, like well over $A2000 in total. Talk about unfair, not to mention backwards. What about the reward for the poor old golfer responsible, like a trophy or something? None mentioned. Not to worry. For all I know, they're probably too busy out the back washing the beer glasses to collect it.
So as it turns out, golfers can indeed insure themselves against the havoc shooting a hole-in-one wrecks upon their finances. I wonder if anyone's shot one, realised nobody's noticed and kept quiet about it, telling their partner their ball disapeared into the rough or the woods or thicket or the peat-bog or whatever bad bits are strategically dotted around the course. I know I would.
I don't know why I do it to myself. I've been trying really hard to get through the material but I just can't make heads or tails of damn near 90% of it, damn it. I'm currently attempting the beginnings of a Grad Dip in Finance and Investment, by distance education no less. Wow. What a crock of shite. No wonder Lachlan Murdoch quit the old man's company. Mind you, he can do whatever he wants. He's a lot richer than me. Hell, I'm in the dumps. The doldrums. Moping around, straining under the yolk of incuriosity. Yoke, sorry. Why do I put myself in these ridiculous frames of mind involving goals setting and achievements and grandiose pictures of me getting anywhere in life. Look at me. What the hell can a head like this accomplish? It's grotesque and frightening. A student once told me I have an 'uncute face'. It was a guy so I wasn't really phased at the time, but I mean really. It's like something out of the 'police wrap' section of a newspaper. 
But plough on I must and plough on I will. Unless I decide to quit. In that case there won't be so much plowing as sitting around hating myself. But it's not like I won't have seen it coming. All I'll need to do is check my blog and read this post. Oh God. God, If you can hear me, switch of this computer, put me to bed and wake me up tomorrow confident, refreshed and newly, mysteriously endowed with the intellect of 10 Warren Buffets. It's the prayer of a servile, humble man. Who's asking, you say? That's simple. A meek, biddable, lowly and altogether manageable man who has never asked anything of you before. Neigh, who never even believed in you before. That was a joke I swear. I've listened to a lot of Martin Luther King Jnr speeches. I had them on an album and, for some odd reason, on the other side were speeches by Adolph Hitler. As you can imagine, it wasn't difficult to tell who-was-who. They spoke different languages for a start. But I digress. Please let me pass these exams. I'm tired and I don't want to study anymore. C'mon. Please? Awesome. Thanks. Amen.
I've got exams next week and to be honest I'm not feeling so hot. I'm going to watch a movie, drink a few beers then have a lie down. Before you throw your arms up in disgust and accuse me of grand procrastination, laziness, general apathy or jadedness, listlessness, listitude, tedium, stoicism, malaise, immunity or torpor, I'll have you know I've been studying for most of the day. Until my next post a question to ponder; what's another word for thesaurus?
We meet some funny folks in the business of English intruction. Take Masaharu for example. I really wanted to get a picture of him today, but I decided that wasn't too appropriate...maybe next time. He's an unusual cat and today he told me an interesting story about his stalker. Masaharu is 40 years old and has been living in the same apartment in Tokyo for the past 20 years, costing him just over $500 p/m in rent. Sounds cheap, I suggested. He agreed. Well, it should be. There are apparantly no windows and the room's about 4 meters square. Not big...even for a skinny fella like him.All was fine and dandy until about five years ago when some new guy moved into the apartment above him. I'm not exactly sure how it started but bad blood soon developed between the two. As there was in place an explicit rule that the apartments were for single occupancy only, he grew incencensed that the new guy had a woman living with him, and so took it upon himself to inform the building supervisor. Only, the girl wasn't living there. She just popped over from time-to-time. The reaction of the lofty neighbour was expectedly harsh. According to Masaharu, the neighbour kicked his front door in and threatened him with violence, but did not actually follow through. Lucky for Masaharu. Here's where it gets creepy. The neighbour appartently started loitering around Masaharu's door, and the general vicinity thereof, making prolonged eye contact and generally lurking about the shadowy recesses of the building. Skip to present day.Masaharu explained to me that the stalker is his neighbour. No surprises there. However, the wierd thing is, the stalking takes place when both of them are at home, tucked away in their respective apartments. As you may imagine, apartments on each floor of most buildings are identical, so as I sit in my room typing away I can tilt my head up and imagine the exact layout of the apartment above me. In the case of the stalker, everytime Masaharu moves from the bedroom to the kitchen, the lofty neighbour makes the same move. Everytime Masaharu takes a piss, the neighbour takes a piss. Everytime Masaharu walks back into his bedroom, the neighbour can be heard padding along the exact same steps above. Everytime he takes a shower, the neighbour takes a shower. And so it goes and has apparantly gone for the past two or three years. Again he called the building supervisor and was not so politely and not surprisingly told this was all in his head.
I asked Masaharu what he's going to do. He said "wakanai". "I don't know either" I replied. Have to say, I wasn't kidding.
A view of Shinjuku Ogardo from the 5th floor window of my workplace. A little trivia now. You see the orange train rolling across the bridge? That's the Chuo line and it's a well known tale that the highest number of suicides occur on that particular line (as in, people throw themselves infront of it). Why? The popular wisdom states that in Japan, the owner/operator of the train line bills the earthly departed's family for any costs incurred from delays and so on, arising from the suicide's action. Of all the lines, the Chuo's the cheapest. 
And now with happier news...summer's here! But, unfortunately, the time is not yet right for dancing in the street. That should kick of in August sometime. Regardless, Tokyo basked in a 35 degree heat yesterday and cooled off in the 32 degree heat of today. I love summer, and despite my Mitten's protests, I think I'll take a leaf out of this unit's book.
After experiencing a nasty earthquake or when in need of a simple recharge, I find it's best to bathe like the Japanese. As the modified saying goes, "When in Tokyo, do as the Tokyoites do."The trick is to shower before getting into the bath. That's right, before getting into the bath. Scrub down well and hard with a nice course wash cloth and soap of some description, until your sore and red. Make sure you do this under excruciatingly hot water. Once scrubbed, ease yourself into the bath, conveniently prefilled with clear, fresh, steaming water and close eyes. Soak for as long as you cant stand the heat, preferably with the lights off.Here's the funny part. Should you happen to live with family or friends, don't be selfish and let the water out. Save it for the next weary soul desiring this heavenly ritual of rejuvenating qualities. In Japan, one shares his bath water. It's true, you know.
Today, after three years in Japan, I experienced my first truly frightening earthquake. For all you heroes out there being tough and saying today weren't nothing, I extend to you a rousing Fuck You. Today was fucking scary. Watching twelve story buildings swaying like branches in the wind was not fun. Enduring the spine chilling hammering of a shifting tectonic plate was not fun. Being on the sixth floor of a rickety building in the middle of Shinjuku was not fun. Anyway, as I journalist of reputable skill, I recalled my duty as recorder of epic events and quickly snapped away with my trusty mobile telephone camera. The following photos are of Shinjuku station, the busiest train station in the world, and my place within it.
PS) Earthquake struck around 4pm, photos taken around 7pm. Photos are not listed chronologically, or in order of importance.
JW, me and Irish Joe. Together we stand, shaken yet resiliant.
The first sign of trouble...this is the east entrance to my platform.
He earned his money tonight.
Gettin' busy.
Damn.
Lucky I brought my camera.
"Do I get more money if I cry?"
Under ground...not good.
Above ground...not much better.I must apologise for the limited scope of these pics. To be honest, no damage was suffered in the above depicted neck of the woods. As such, I've tried to portray the extent of congestion that this city's infrastructure must cope with from time to time. This particular station is f'ing huge...it goes on and on and spreads itself far and deep underground. It's easy to forget that this requires management. It's not by accident that all of these people got home via public transport tonight. Dudes were working on it, hardcore. And check out this last photo...
11 pm and all's well.
I'd like to do a quick shout-out to my old mate in San Fran, "Scoopy". Scoop-dawg reminds me of a neighbour back home named Mick. But that's neither here-nor-there (even though Mick was a hard drinking, hot-rod driving psycho). See you back in Tokyo next winter Scoop!I'm taking a break. I've just been speaking to my good friend "Sheng" from China who lives in Tokyo and works with me in Shinjuku. We're busy trying to sort out the woes of the world and he ran out of beer so now he's off to the shop. The internet is a wonderful thing and free internet telephony is down right sweet. Get skype on your computer and look me up...my user name is Tokyoskyper. Why just this morning I spoke to my Bro Pablo in London for over an hour, costing me nix. The world is my neighbourhood and that's pretty nice.
Here are some real scum bags I work with. Kerry, Jin and Irish Joe. Kerry likes to call me names such as dog face, hot dog bun fingers, mallard feet (because my shoes are a funny shape), hobbit feet, meaty breasts, daikon legs (a thick, white Japanese vegetable), over sized dwarf and according to him my teeth are covered in tar-tar. Jin likes making students cry but he's really a nice bloke and Irish Joe can speak Nihongo like a native. He's the one trying to ignore Kerry as he sticks his tongue in his ear. Jin's sitting next to the Texan lass, Christine. She's not a scum bag by the way.
Says Kerry, "Guess where my left hand is."Says Joe, "I can't. I'm pursing my lips."
Says Christine, "Even though I'm sweet, don't forget to not mess with Texas."
Says Jin, "What?"
I'm here to testify something great has come out of the London mayhem of last week. After a nine year silence I have finally motivated myself to hook up with the long lost Pablo of New Cross. We're currently rapping over the internet and I'd like to take this opportunity to say I missed ya Bro! Can't wait to get together for a drink someday soon. Come to TOKYO!
I went out with my mate Irish Joe a couple of weeks ago and just tonight found this pic on my keitai (mobile phone) . It's taken in an outdoor beer garden on the top of Keio department store in Shinjuku. The buildings in the background are part of the kickass sky scraper district, accessible via the west exit of Shinjuku station. I don't know the happy fellas in the foreground.
Now, I mean, really, how old do you think this girl is, for f#$%'s sake? This is a shot of typical advertising on my local train for what I guess is one of the many weekly manga rags, containing comics and photos of under-developed female children in bikinis. In case you can't make it out, this one's called Young Animal. Why is this acceptable? I cannot see how this blatant demonstration of child exploitation can be so obviously displayed in a nation of intelligent, civilised people. Why is it tolerated? I asked my girlfriend's friend about this and, in particular, why it is not only tolerated but infact barely even noticed. She said she hasn't thought about it before because the product being advertised isn't for her, so she doesn't pay any attention to the advertisement itself. That's only one person's response, but it seems pretty applicable to the community as a whole. "I don't care because it doesn't concern me." My quote, not her's.
Post script: In the interests of balanced journalism which is what this blog is all about, I'd like to state for the record that I do not actually know how young this girl is. It's possible she's not a child at all...a grandmother perhaps.
This is where it all comes together. At the foot of my futon on the left rest my two technics turntables. I'm a terrible DJ. I can't mix or scratch. I rely purely upon my fantastic taste in music to justify my purchasing the decks. Anyway, they were cheap. On the right you can see a few records by the blue couch and infront of that my little table, upon which sits my old workhorse of an IBM thinkpad. It's all a little small and old and second hand, but it suits me. I like it. By the way, I've resolved to use only my mobile phone camera to take shots for the blog. If they don't turn out so hot I apologise!
The first and only time I heard a bomb go off was in London, back in 1995. I was working in the Strand Palace Hotel, which is actually situated on The Strand, being a main thoroughfare of the city and as such a pretty busy one. It was night. I was waiting tables in Johnson's Bar and I remember there were a number of customers eating dinner. I heard what I immediately thought was a waiter dropping an overloaded tray of crockery and silverware from shoulder height onto the floor, and as I walked toward the kitchen to inspect I remember an immediate but mild sense of confusion, as I had seen the windows shake at the same time I had heard the noise. It turned out to have come not from the kitchen, but from The Strand itself and as I found myself rushing toward that street with other staff members and a few guests we were confronted by a cop, or a number of them, as if from nowhere, screaming at us to "get back, to get back, to get inside." One cop was saying "there could be another, there could be another, get indoors" and I realised then without any sense of fear or panic that what I had heard was an explosion. A member of the "real" IRA had been carrying a fertiliser bomb to a courthouse that was situated some way up the road from where we were. It went off in his lap, killing only himself but most probably ruining a number of lives at the same time. The bus wasn't packed but it was carrying passengers.
I wonder how that bus driver felt, watching the news on Thursday morning. I wonder now if that bus driver's still alive. Or if he's perhaps been living in the bottom of a bottle since that awful night on The Strand ten years ago. It may sound odd, but these days I can't help but say God bless the bus drivers.
Top notch short bread this stuff, and I do mean top notch. It feels like the biscuit box is actually offering you a biscuit. I damn near thanked the box when I took one from it. Sitting there alone at the kitchen table I was tempted to strike up a conversation, but being a modern man I knew that the idea was both silly and futile.
