Gay Marriage Debate - I've got the solution!

So... I was thinking.

The main argument against allowing gay marriage is that it changes the definition of marriage from the religiously established "one man and one woman" to the secularly established "two people." Why not, then, in honor of separation of church and state, have the government cease to recognize all marriages, be they gay or straight, and only officiate on matters of "civil unions." In other words, tax forms, licenses, and other official documents will categorize a registered couple as "civil partners" or something like that (making all the same rights and privileges that come with marriage apply to civil unions instead) and the definition of "marriage" can be left up to each individual church. Then, those who wish to get a "traditional marriage" can do so in the privacy of their own church before God, and homosexuals can enjoy the same rights as heterosexuals. What do you say, give to Cesar what is Cesar's?

Hip to Raccont

Loose Kingdom will be performing this Sunday at the Raccont in Toyama. This is the biggest venue we've played so far and hopefully marks a trend for us in exponential growth of venue size. The restaurant has two floors, a large stage, and plenty of room to move around. However, despite the wishes of the raccont staff, we (somewhat) accidentally sold ten more tickets than we were supposed to, and we are expecting around 50 people to come see us. Ichiro was a bit nervous about this but Adam summed it up best: "next time they'll JUST book Loose Kingdom." We're not sure about next show, but we wanted to play one more before Christmas, then start looking at venues outside the prefecture starting in January/February.

Wish us luck!

John's Addiction

Yesterday I had an interesting discussion with a friend of mine on the topic of addiction. He's been struggling to quit smoking for quite sometime now and made the claim that nicotine is the most addictive substance he's ever encountered. I would never presume to understand his struggle having never been addicted to smoking, but I have a theory that there's much more to the addictive nature of cigarettes than simply "chemical dependence."

I am reminded of something my grandmother said, which is often met with rolled eyes and laughter by those listening. You have to understand that my grandmother has what many might consider a "radically conservative" stance on chemical alteration. She's bold enough to call alcohol a drug. Is alcohol a drug? Of course it is. If you don't believe that, you are either delusional or in denial.

Getting back to cigarettes, I think there is more to the addictive nature of those tiny little fire sticks than people realize. You've just finished an awesome dinner. You feel wonderful. Suddenly you reach into your pocket "Ooo! A cigarette!." Now you can keep the good vibe going... You get home from work and sit down in front of the TV. Your favorite senator is about to make his debut on "Dancing with the Stars." What's this? AND you have a ciggarette? Double Bonus!

Are you starting to see what I'm getting at? Humans, especially modern ones, are consumers. We feel the need to tantalize our senses as often as possible. That's why we watch so much TV, chat on the net, eat non-food empty bullshit like potato chips, write blogs... The cigarette is the ultimate consumer's dream. You just pull it out, light it up, and enjoy a relaxing sensation. It doesn't take time to prepare, it doesn't fill up your stomach - it's just pure sensory entertainment. The psychological impact of the consumer mindset on a smoker is what makes it so potent. When you know that at any moment you can satisfy your consumer need just by sucking on a four-inch long roll of paper with tobacco inside, it can make it so much easier to get through the day. And if you forget that fact, when you inevitably hit your next "now what to do" moment of the day, you suddenly remember "Oooh, I could have a cigg!"

Some of you are reading this post and cheering me on for speaking out against the dangers of drugs and cigarettes. But you might be disappointed to know that I actually believe drugs aren't as dangerous as our society makes them out to be. They are damn dangerous, but illegal drugs are used by the media, the government, and other agencies to blow a cloud of smoke over bigger problems. For one thing, legal drugs are just as much if not an even bigger threat to the health of the average consumer as legal ones. Stop taking aspirin every time you get a headache - it's poison. Instead, try asking yourself what it is about your lifestyle and eating habits that are causing you to get the headache in the first place.

Food addiction is the biggest under-appreciated artist in the glamorous world of addictions. Bad nutrition in my mind is a bigger killer than drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, stress or any other bad guy. This is mostly due to the fact that unlike cigarettes which are clearly labelled "THIS WILL KILL YOU," the public is generally ignorant as to what constitutes a good diet and how important it is to have one. While smokers are pushed out of bars and restaurants, patrons who devour 12 pound steaks get their names and photos on restaurant walls of fame. As peaceful potheads get raped by serial killers in jail, airlines are providing more wheelchairs and two seats for the price of one to accommodate the obese. Is this not the biggest hypocrisy in our policy toward public health? Why is this question being ignored in the health care debate?

So what's the best way to live? Mostly vegan (often raw food) diet with occasional meat consumption, rare alcohol or drug use, plenty of exercise, good amount of sleep seems to work for me. In reality, though, the best thing is a change of attitude. Stop lying to yourself about what it is you are putting into your body. If you drink a beer, you are using a drug. I like beer... I drink it sometimes and nothing bad happens to me: it's still a drug. If you eat a piece of chocolate cake, you are shooting a tiny dose of heroine into your body. If you get an overwhelmingly euphoric sensation from such an activity, you are an addict.

Anything in this world can be addictive. Don't believe me? I've suffered an addiction since I was ten years old. I've tried all kinds of different ways to stop, but I can't. Whenever the opportunity to engage in this addiction presents itself, I can't focus on anything else until I do it. I've quit and relapsed hundreds of times. What is this unstoppable addiction of mine? Biting my fingernails...

What I've Been Getting Into Lately

I don't have time to write a full review for this section, but I think all my readers need to get on youtube or itunes and find Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." This piece has been the soundtrack of my life these days

Loose as a Goose

Yesterday, Ichiro and I took a walk down (in our car) to the Raccont restaurant and live house of Toyama where we will be performing on November 8th. There's nothing one could say beyond "wow, this place is the shiznit!" The stage is quite large, enough to comfortable fit a six piece band. They have a huge loft on the second floor from which audience members can have a bird's eye view of the performers. The sound system is stellar and the owner informed me that a guy is going to record the show professionally and pass a CD off to us. This is big news for Loose because it means not only will we have the chance to play at a great venue, but we'll come out of it with a tangeable CD that we can use to promote our band. The recording won't be perfect obviously and I'm sure we'll make errors here and there, but now we have 0 CDs and after raccont we'll have 1. This is an 100% increase in tangeable Loose Kingdom merchandise.

One week left until the show at Ajito studios in Toyama. We've got a few more rehearsals set up. Loose sounds tight (hehe, i know) and I'm certain this is going to be the best show I've ever put on. Onwards and upwards!

A True Artist

What is the meaning of artistic integrity? I guess if art imitates life then this concept must at least appear to be the same as its societal partner, just plain old integrity. When we think of the word integrity, I wonder if the composer Frank Zappa would come to mind? He sang about big penises and weasels ripping flesh. He dropped every dirty word in the book in his songs. His kids called him Frank. He believed parental warnings shouldn't be allowed on album covers. So why on the subject of artistic integrity do I immediately cite the brains behind some of the zaniest, most controversial, sexually suggestive, and outright dirty music of the 60s, 70s, and 80s? The answer is simple: the man was who he was, and stayed true to himself from the day he walked into a big, cigar chomping record execs office with a copy of his 40 minute long avant garde composition "Lumpy Gravy" until the sold out performances of his orchestral chamber piece "The Yellow Shark" shortly before his death.

America, like any other nation, is a country of contradictions and questionable values. We hold The Jonas Brothers in the highest esteem for their purity rings, when in reality, there are millions of dollars of Disney money behind the brothers' decision to make a "stand" for abstinence. For their part, the Jonas brothers are thrusting their pelvises, shooting white foam on their audiences, and making sexy poses for little girls' posters.

Zappa wouldn't have liked the Jonas Brothers. He would have considered them just one of the many moral failures of our culture. What is the psychological impact of a group like the Jonas Brothers dipping their big toes in the pools of sexual suggestion while at the same time encouraging abstinence with their million dollar rings versus a hairy, big nosed (actual) song writer who says "look this is what sex (or drugs or rock n roll) is - take it or leave it."

I grew up in a generally liberal household: my parents didn't try to hide anything from me or scare me into abstaining from sex or drinking or drugs. The result was that I now have a responsible and realistic attitude towards all those things. Frank Zappa was a cynic. He had a way of making the listener look at any hot button issue and just chill out or have a bit of a chuckle about it. That's the power and integrity of comedy: when you're able to have a laugh about something, it's much easier to approach the situation with an open mind and a spirit of cooperation and reason. From that point of view, any problem can be easily solved.

What I've Been Getting into Lately

We're Only in it for the Money - The Mothers of Invention

Every genre needs an album for phony hippies to listen to. Zappa and his mothers have the perfect thing. A combination of psychedelic pop, prog, new age synth, R&B, and classical with a ton of hilarious and innovative soundbites in between, this 1968 classic lampoons everything from cops, to the government, to dirty hippies and their indulgent drug abuse. Coasting the edge of social suicide, The Mothers isolate themselves from every trend and establishment in 1960s culture and counterculture to provide biting social commentary and cynical observation. The message? Just chill out, be who you are no matter how weird or crazy, and do the right thing whether in a suit and tie or with long hair and a beard. Beyond the album's social concepts and ideas, it contains a great deal of musical innovation as well. Even the Beatles were influenced heavily by The Mothers to produce the album "Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band" often mistakenly billed as the world's first concept album (Zappa produced one a few years before and there were many even before that). Strange, exciting, lyrical, melodic, annoying, like nothing you've ever heard, it's no wonder "We're Only in it for the Money" was recently included in the Library of Congress' "National Recording Registry."

Noteworthy tunes: Who Needs the Peace Corps?, Mom and Dad, Flower Punk, Take Your Clothes Off When You Dance, Lonely Little Girl, What's the Ugliest Part of Your Body?

Zack Attack is Dead!

So in the spirit of Noel Gallagher finally breaking off from Oasis, my band Zack Attack has decided to disband and immediately reband under a different name. We were quite seriously complexing over what name to use, but finally, we decided to honor of the humorous Japanese mispronunciation of our former lead vocalist Ruth Kingdon by naming the group "Loose Kingdom." The name also seems to suggest the nature of our band: a group of fine musicians inspired by a wide range of musical influences might find it difficult to be as one. But our task is to use our diversity as our strength to create a united kingdom (not THE United Kingdom") of great music, loosely held together as it may be. Well, enough about deep meanings and symbols, just filling everyone in on the change.

Anyway, from now on as a way of motivating me to write more on my blog, I have decided to review one album every week. Some music is new to me, other old. However, it will always be an album I've been getting into over the course of the preceding week. I've decided to call this section "What I've been getting into this week." So here goes:

What I've been getting into this week...

White Pepper - Ween

This album from Pennsylvania's Indie rock legends is so eclectic, it's impossible to pigeon-hole their style into one genre. Whether its jazz, power punk, country, psychedelic music, or even Kenny Loggins-esque yacht rock, one never knows what to expect next. The concept behind their musical ADD seems simple. Signaled by their offbeat, often funny or cynical lyrics and the use of bizarre sounding voice and guitar effects, Ween takes aim at the entire idea of genre. The album, much like a Tarantino film, dissects each genre it presents, taking the pomp and glitter away and allowing the listener to think about the basic foundation of the style being presented. The best example is "Bananas and Blow" which sets the innocent, overproduced calypso singer/songwriter style of the late 70s against the theme of sitting around doing cocaine with no particular direction. The contrast seems to suggest the entire genre had little more aim than to set a melodic backdrop for rich, white people to ride their yachts and indulge in cocaine. Throughout it all, Ween manages to keep a cohesive sound, which only on rare moments might make the passive listener wonder if "White Pepper" was a compilation album of various different groups. This method of album construction challenges the listener to think about the system of genre and categorization (i.e. rock, jazz, blues) which exists in the music industry and wonder if such characterizations truly have any utility in understanding the essence of a group. In the case of Ween, at least, it certainly does not.

Noteworthy Songs:
Every song on the album is good, but I found The Grobe, Pandy Fackler, Back to Basom, Stay Forever, and Falling Out to be particularly outstanding compositions.

The Twenty-Year Plan: Mormons Target America

by Dr. Gamal Shataturd

When we emigrated from Cheyenne to Provo in January, 1967, little did I imagine that the Mormon religion would become center-stage in world news. After I was laid-off from the cheesecake factory, my interest in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints grew, and I began to discuss, dialogue, debate, and send threatening letters under assumed names to Mormon leaders throughout the world from a Christian's view of the religion. Over the past seven months, I have had the privilege of participating in over 12,000 debates and discussions on eight continents and three planets in two galaxies plus exposure on T.V. and radio, and whole bunch of free stuff! "Latter Day Saints Exposed" was released in 1988, but was given the new title “The Truth about Mormonism” after we were sued by a Salt Lake City based adult magazine of the same name. Mormon Shmorman is now in its third printing in the three years it has been published. It is the only book which challenges the book of Mormon in substance, style, language, contents, and overall entertainment value. Our publications can be located on http://www.word-to-your-mormon.net/ or http://www.church-of-latterday-AINTS.org/.

This is my analysis of the Mormon invasion of America, the agenda of the Church of Latter Day Saints and visible methods to take over America by the year 2020! We have yet to see the lengths to which these violent, blood-thirsty fanatics will go to accomplish their mission. Will Americans continue to sleep through this invasion as they did through last year’s Superbowl?

Mormon goals for 2020:

1. Elect Mitt Romney president and force everyone in the United States to become Mormons. This includes moving the national capitol to Provo (a.k.a. “Povo”) and changing the name of our nation to “Mormonia.” (Doesn’t that sound like a fun place to go on vacation?)

2. Send all new converts on twenty-year-long missions to places like the Yukon Territory and Northeastern Siberia, while they “spread the word of God” from their villas in the Bahamas.

3. Reinstate prohibition: that should at least get the Catholics to move out!

4. Not only outlaw the drinking of any and all kinds of tea-based beverages, but also remove the letter “T” from the English alphabet altogether; I pity the fool who has to enforce that rule!

5. Take control of as much of Hollywood as they can (with seven more “Napoleon Dynamites”), as well as the press, TV, radio, walkie-talkies, g-mail chat, cups connected by strings, interjections, gestures, cattle calls, emotional outbursts, clever puns, and smoke signals by buying the corporations or a controlling stock.

6. Get all five original members of the classic 80’s hair band “Hanoi Rocks” back together for a slammin’ reunion tour throughout the Western United States and Japan.

7. Use the taxpayers’ money to fund Mormon terrorist group at home and abroad, such as “The Flaming Utards” and that infamous trio of luscious latter day lady agents “Brigham’s Angels.”

8. Force everyone to wear name tags with their place of birth on them: failure to do so will result in being reassigned a name.

9. Accelerate Mormon demographic growth via:

a. Massive immigration (20 or so annually since 1985)

b. Multiple marriages: you think polygamy is all fun and games, but just remember: four wives means four mother-in-laws, too!

c. Conducting the 2010 census only in areas heavily populated by Mormons (do you think anyone actually complains about not being sent a census form in the mail?)

If we don’t do something now, these wolves in white shirts and name tags are going to turn the US into a Mormon playground. And it won’t be the kind of playground with swing sets, monkey bars, and the random oddly-shaped sculpture representing principles of contemporary minimalism!

So whatever you do, DON’T FORGET TO FILL OUT YOUR CENSUS!

Dr. Gamal Shataturd, BS, BO, WWJD, LOL, CKNY, and a member of the Queens Community College Board of Scholars, has traveled to over 2,000 countries. He is a Palestinian Arab, Latvian, Chinese, Cherokee Indian, Black Christian American of Hispanic origin, who is an author, lecturer, Gangsta-rap producer, and member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. He is also author of the best-seller "When Passions Flame in Rio" and his tenth book - "Lesbians and the Kabala" - was published in the spring, 2003. You can contact him at 422 Shatturd upon Soilengruagarden, UK 37895, phone 1-234-567-8910 or on the net at http://www.shatabook.com/.

This article was published by Walter Koenig's Interplanetary Press.

John Lennon and the Philosopher's Stone

Today in class, I asked my students to write about the person they idolize. Assuming Japan to be pretty rock savvy, I chose for my example John Lennon. The picture below was included in their worsheet, but just to be sure, I asked if anyone knew who the person in the picture was. The answers were startling:


Who is this man?

Harry Potter 90%
Jesus 2%
My Mother 2%
John Lennon 1%

Metal Mike

He rips his guitar to shreds like Marilyn Manson does to a chicken. Boring pentatonic scales don't mean a thing to him. Standing next to Robbie Halford of Judas Priest, he is a dark angel among Gods of Metal. He is METAL MIKE!!!!

But back in the mid 90's, I knew him just as Mike, the soft spoken and oddly charming Polish guitar instructor at Sweetest Sounds in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. This man who now plays huge stadiums all across the world with the likes of Steve Vai and Ingwie Malmsteen was once teaching an eighth-grader how to play Bush's "Glycerin" on his dad's old Gibson.

It's hard to believe that someone like me, who tends toward a smoother, jazzier sound could have been taught by such a hard rocker. Yes, of course, I am a closet metal head, but when it comes to music production, I tend toward the softer. But that's him, Metal Mike, the man who taught me to play guitar.

Perhaps my best memory of Mike is the fictional band we created. It had some weirdo name like "The Country Batboy Family Band." That's because Mike and I were obsessed with "Batboy" from the "Weekly World News" tabloid, and we used to make songs about him in country style. We also played "The Addams Family" theme song a lot for some reason. Mike always did enjoy the darker side of life.

When I first saw Mike playing with rock legend, Robbie Halford, I couldn't believe it. But thinking back, he was a great guitar player, and a Northeastern European to boot. Now I can only hope one day, when I get my wikipedia page, there will be a little blurb in the trivia section: John learned to play guitar from Metal Mike of Halford.

Here's some vids of Mike:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6L1a-F6rhRA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXhIc3rpUUg&feature=related

Mr. Big

On a side note, I saw "Mr. Big" perform in Kanazawa last night. It was awesome. Everyone in Japan says I have a voice like Eric Martin (or Egg Martin, which is what it sounds like when Japanese people say his name). I would be ecstatic if I was in my forties and could still hit the high notes on "To Be With You." Billy Sheehan and Paul Gilbert, the bass and guitar players, had an amazing chemistry, and performed a few really off the hook solo duets. They ended the show by all switching instruments and playing "Smoke on the Water." Awesome harmonies, great and unique solos involving two-necked guitars and multiple musicians playing one guitar at the same time, this show was definitely worth the money. Mr. Big... Who knew?

Where are you, Anya?

It all started off with a glass of sake at James' place. It always does, doesn't it? Two hours later, we're jamming out to George Michael and Elvis with two Russian girls, an American student from Massachusettes, and a Hirdur (Hirdur (hir-dir`) proper noun - a sassy Iraqi girl named Hilda from Ontario prefecture, Canada).

Anya was on her way to James' place with my bike key. She borrowed my bike a few weeks back, and since I lost my key at school, I needed the spare. In typical Russian fashion, she was "five minutes away" from us for about a half hour; where would Russians be without that magical word probka (traffic jam)? On time most probably.

Downing a small drink, we waited outside for the blonde bombshell from Novosibirsk to appear. After about five minutes, she rode past James' house on her bike. "Anya! Anya!" we called out, but no response. Afraid she would soon veer too far off course, I yelled something in Russian: KUDA POEHALA! (Where the hell are you going?). Unfortunately, the blonde girl riding this particular bike who stopped at the sound of threatening words in her native language was NOT Anya. It was sure fun explaining why an American guy was yelling at a stranger in Russian.

Anya dialed up, "I'm coming in my car. Be there in 5 minutes." After about 15 minutes, James and I got tired of waiting and decided we would wave her car down as she passed. Sadly, Anya decided to take a different route to our house, and so we ended up just waving at strangers like a couple of jerks (or Japanese politicians). A mere second before the lovely girl appeared behind us, a brown van drove by with a surprised driver. It was a girl I had taken out on a date back in January, who happens to also work at my base school. Yes, Yuko, I've stood at that intersection everyday since our special time together, waiting for the moment when you just might pass by. Imagine how much more awkward her "ohio gozaimasu" (good morning) is going to sound when I show up to work tomorrow.

Anya had come with Julie, an exchange student from Massachussettes and fellow psuedo-vegetarian. The four of us went to Peace Street Kitchen for the best (as in ONLY) vegan cuisine in town. Afterwards, Yulia, the new Russian student and lovely Tanya's replacement, met up with us and we headed back to James'. James brought the bottle, I brought the guitar. We were set.

Soon Hirdur joined the group, and we had ourselves a regular drunken orchestra (well, we were pretty sober actually, I'm not a big drinker). Whether it was Elton John's "Circle of Life" or Mr. Big's "To Be With You," all of us were ready to rock out to the hits. As it turned out, Julie is a wonderful singer, and our rendition of Extreme's "More than Words" was so fantastic, we decided to perform it at the ALT charity show this month. Where does Toyama get all this talent from?

What a blast Monday night was indeed! The life of John Di Lascio: Seinfeld Season 9.

They Don't Like Me... They Really Don't Like Me!

Back in 2006, when I was studying in St. Petersburg, the NGO which sponsored my program invited me to represent them in a forum on education for the upcoming G8 in Moscow. The guest of honor would be Margaret Spellings, president Bush's Secretary of Education. With dozens of professional teachers and administrators in attendance, I assumed I would just be sitting in the back somewhere, listening to everyone else talk about the importance of good relations between the US and Russia.

To my great surprise, not only did they sit me right next to Ms. Spellings, but they had me do most of the talking. As I soon realized, behind this decision lie some very shrewd logic. Ms. Spellings had a lot of meetings to go to: she wasn't going to remember a bunch of awkward old chicken ladies banging on in broken English for 2 hours (Russians have a tendency to ramble on). They needed a good-looking young lad, an up-and-comer who could charm the secretary: a face she'd remember when it was time to review funding for our program. As it happened, I hit it off so well with Ms. Spellings, who told me she wanted to adopt me, that my company decided to hire me to run their Siberian office. It was my 2004 DNC Obama moment.

Charm is a funny thing though. Sometimes you can skip ahead three spaces on the great game board of life with a few cheeky remarks or a flirtatious smile (even with other guys). But not everyone receives that attitude so warmly. There's a woman at my school in Kureha - let's just call her Ms. Rivers (the translation of her name). Ms. Rivers doesn't like me. It doesn't matter what I say or what I do; I can't win her over. I'm not completely certain what first sparked her contempt for me, but I think it might be the very thing which won over the heart of Margaret Spellings back in Moscow.

First let me say a few things about Ms. Rivers, ah screw it, let's just call her Deborah. I don't like making blanket statements about people, but if lil' Debbie loves her job of teaching Junior High School students English, she hides it well. Never cracking a smile, always scolding the kids for not knowing the answers, it's no surprise the kids' faces light up when I walk into the room. It's frustrating for her indeed: I teach about half the classes she does, I have a lot of free time in the teachers room, I don't have to prep that much, and the kids love me. And so with these little coals fueling her engines, Debbie gleefully used an opportunity to point out what she felt was a shortcoming in my approach to teaching.

I was listening to my headphones, as many teachers do, working on something for the next class, when Debbie came up to me and said, "Excuse me, but I need a worksheet from you today and all you ever do is play on the Internet, this is not your job to play on the Internet." I was livid. I had already gotten a bad rap from her a few months ago over not wearing a tie. So I approached her and said the following: "Look, I'm glad you feel comfortable telling me when you disapprove of something I am doing. Any time you have a specific criticism of my work, please tell me. But don't just make a blanket statement like 'all you do is play on the Internet.' That's very insulting especially since I work hard at this school and care about teaching the kids." Debbie showed embarrassment. Charm aside - sometimes you need to as tactfully as possible hand someones ass to them.

I made a compromise with her that day: I would always finish making worksheets for her class before doing anything else (because all of the other teachers trust my ability to run a class efficiently). When it comes to people like Debbie, sometimes it's easier to just meet them half-way, but you'd better call them out on their bullshit before you do it, or else they'll walk all over you.

I don't know why some people look at me and see a charming young lad, while others see a snotty little know-it-all prick. You eventually have to sit back and realize that no matter how high of an opinion you have of yourself, you can't control what others see when they look at you. I've encountered many situations in my life, both in relationships and with coworkers, where it's been so easy to say "but I'm so awesome, how could you not like me?" Indeed, John, you are awesome, but not everyone sees it that way. After all, someone out there looks at lil' Debbie and says "wow, what a great girl!" Who are you to say they are wrong? All we can do is be happy with who we are inside, and know that when we do that, other interesting people will appear in our lives as well. The rest, we just have to learn to deal with.

American Terrorism

This week someone decided they could make a valuable statement about the sanctity of human life by walking into a church and shooting an usher to death in front of his family and children. The assassination of obstetrician George Tiller was a disgusting attack on a law-abiding citizen that should make even the strongest pro-lifers shudder. Randall Terry, a divorced, homophobic pro-life advocate who disowned his gay son (almost as good a role model for people of faith as boob-jobbed, nude model Miss California), made the following infuriating statement:

George Tiller was a mass-murderer. We grieve for him that he did not have time to properly prepare his soul to face God. I am more concerned that the Obama Administration will use Tiller's killing to intimidate pro-lifers into surrendering our most effective rhetoric and actions. Abortion is still murder. And we still must call abortion by its proper name; murder. Those men and women who slaughter the unborn are murderers according to the Law of God.

So why was George Tiller's murder wrong according to Terry? For one it didn't give Tiller a chance to become a Christian. More importantly though, it was a tactical error for pro-lifers who will now be pigeon-holed as fanatics. Terry seems to ignore the fact that a woman and her children just saw their husband and father gunned downed during Sunday services. Excuse me for turning a bit Keith Olbermann here, but there's really only one thing I could possibly say in response to Mr. Terry's irresponsible attitude. But since some of my readers might be offended by vulgarity, suffice to say it's three words, and it rhymes with "cluck blue, Jerry."

Toga! Toga!

Kawasock it to Me

This weekend I enjoyed hot barbecue and live music with about thirty of my best friends in a remote part of Toyama-ken called "Toga." About an hour outside the city, this magical forest escape in the misty mountains is a prime location for the ultimate backwoods party: and we took advantage to the fullest.

I arrived around two in the afternoon, welcomed coldly by a giant grey cloud drizzling rain over our soon-to-be indoor event. There was Kawasaki, the owner of one of the most unique houses I've ever visited and our host for the evening, fully dressed in poncho and construction hat, erecting the ugliest giant blue tarp roof you've ever seen over his front yard: the barbecue must go on. We hit the onsen in the meantime - a small one on the south side of town with an outside bath facing the green hills. The fog on the mountains had an eeriness about it, but anticipating the events about to unfold in the evening was more than enough to calm my nerves.

At around five pm, people started showing up. We grilled some monster fish for dinner, grooving to the eclectic sounds of Germany's disco supergroup "Dschingis Khan." A tap on the shoulder from a 5'3" sunglasses wearing Japanese bass player sporting a Mohawk and I found myself on stage rocking out to "Furusatou:" the official song of Toga village (written by Kawasaki himself). As our concert continued, we eventually made the smooth transition into "live karaoke" with me on the piano. James' version of George Michael's "Faith" was a performance deserving of sincerest praise.

With the subtle oriental sounds of Chinese synthesizers, the intro to Earth, Wind, and Fire's "Fantasy" sprung us into disco action. One by one people grooved on down into Kawasaki's driveway, the make-shift dance floor, until there was not a bum touching a seat. James', the self-appointed and overwhelmingly popularly supported MC, called an impromptu "ass shaking contest" during Toga dance fever classic "That's the Way I Like It." None of us could match the power of our friend Stephanie's amazing booty skills. It was a very moving moment in the evening.

Inside, the party was just as rocking. Kawasaki, the owner of about 50 different kinds of drums, had started an African style bongo jam with everyone lending a hand. My friend Haruko (from Queens) and I presented a traditional tristate area tribal dance, which won the praise and admiration of all those observing. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. Hilda was hugging... Laura was laughing... Everson was grunting... Ruth was rocking... everyone was in their element.

As the night came to a close, I took a short walk in the woods by myself. The thought couldn't help but pop into my head: I've traveled all over the world and made all kinds of acquaintances. But never have I had such an amazingly eclectic group of friends, each uniquely contributing something of their own to every gathering, each equally the life of the party. It's quite an awesome feeling, stepping back and knowing you're a part of something like this - it makes you regret the forward motion of time.

Star Trek

On a side note, I saw "Star Trek" yesterday. While the amazing special effects and giant spaceships were enough to numb the critical side of my brain for two hours, afterwards, I couldn't help but feel that an injustice had been done to the series. The new movie, which is supposed to tell the story of how the original Enterprise crew came to know each other, involved a villain who arrived from 25 years in the future through a black hole to kill Spock and destroy Vulcan. As a result, in the words of young Spock himself, the destiny of all the members of the Enterprise crew had forever been changed. In other words, none of the things you saw in the original Star Trek series and films ever happened thanks to this movie. Seemed like a cheap way to justify not bothering to stick to the original Gene Roddenberry storyline in the future sequels. I will say though that the American portraying Chekhov effected a flawless Russian accent. Molodets!

There Will Always Be an England

When you grow up with an uncle and a grandfather both named Benny Hill, you can't escape picking up some of that dry wit you so often hear about when discussing British humor (sorry, humour). Teemed with a non-stop "Only Fools and Horses" marathon last night on my computer, the little half-brit in me couldn't help but jump out and say "ello" this morning.

We were studying Easter Island in my second period class and the massive Moai sculptures adorning its breathtaking beaches. After a short documentary, my JTE and I had the following conversation in English:

Teacher: Boy, I'd sure like to visit Easter Island before I die.
John: Well, it'd be a bit of a bugger to try afterwards.

I might have missed the point of having easy English conversations in front of intermediate level Japanese students. My sentiments were confirmed by the overwhelming sound of crickets chirping in the classroom. Tough crowd!

Revelations

After reading a friend's recent blog entry, I understood something profound. She was recounting an essentially banal but somewhat deviating from the norm experience she had recently, noting that it made her think a bit differently about the world she lives in. However, she made the powerful distinction that she had not undergone some sort of life-altering experience, but rather just had a simple realization. I've noticed that my blog entries have a tendency to take a markedly less exciting event and turn it into some great lesson for all humanity:

I ate a sandwich today and realized that a slice of meat in between two pieces of bread was a metaphor for what Prince Siddhartha believed about the nature of reality.

I don't want my readers (whoever you two are) to think I fancy myself some sort of prophet, having apocalypses in between third and fourth period classes and writing them down in my blog over school lunch. My attempts to romanticize the events of my life often find me adding a moral to the story where there may not be any. Please excuse this tendency and consider I'm mostly doing it for a laugh.

Penny Black Attack

One thing I learned this weekend was the value of a good self-defense course. I know anyone who dares to set foot in Toyama's infamous "Penny Black," a mos eisly-esque expat hub where half the guys are seedy Russian car dealers, the rest look like avid members of the local al-Qaeda affiliate, and almost all the girls are working, is taking a big risk at having his face rearranged. And yet, out of boredom last Saturday, I made a pit stop over to Toyama's foreigner dive. Within five minutes and without saying a nasty word to anyone, I got karate chopped in the neck by a drunken Brazilian who was smoking outside.

Just one hit and this throwback to our Cro-Magnon origins was back in the club abusing ever more intently his own liver. You could call it a "so this is why I don't come here" moment. A big part of me wanted to knock this guy's teeth in, but I decided to restrain myself, got on my bike, and headed home. I felt a sadness that a normal, peace-loving guy like me couldn't just drop into a local club and enjoy a little disco dance without Nacho Sanchez giving me a hard time. It was frustrating as well; every guy knows the sense of emptiness, the lack of closure, when we deny ourselves the opportunity to punch someone back. Just walk away, it’s not worth it.

I always try to think “people like that will mess with the wrong guy one day, and then they’ll learn.” As it turned out for Kung-fu Carlos, today was that day. After I left, news of the recent scuffle reached my posse of Brazilian friends inside the club, who were dancing and enjoying themselves as well. Baffled by the nerve of this bag of feminine sanitary chemicals, they grouped up and sorted him out.

Now, I don’t get some kind of devious pleasure out of the image of a drunken toe rag lying bloodied in the street, but better he get his comeuppance now and learn his lesson, rather than finding himself at the mercy of a gang of murderous yakudza later. I guess that’s why it's good to have a reputation as a peacemaker. While I've had my moments of rage since I've been in Japan, people here know I only throw a punch when I feel my safety or the safety of my friends is endangered. Knowing me to be a laid back guy in that respect, my Brazilian friends, who might have otherwise just reasoned with the guy, were ever more infuriated that someone would treat me in such a vile manner. As a result, the haughty philistine got his stone in the head, and the decent, civilized folk of Toyama scored a victory over barbarism.

Clash of the Lanterns

It's 1820, and a bunch of bored Japanese people are sitting around the port town of Fusiki with nothing to do. So one night, probably under the influence of alcohol, they decide to gather the two biggest wooden carts in town, build them up about ten meters high, cover them in paper lanterns, and get the townsfolk to ram them into each other. A national pastime is born.

189 years later, here I am observing a time-honored Japanese tradition: the Kenkayama Festival. With about a thousand beer-breathed, screaming admirers jam packed into one small block of an otherwise dead suburb, I elbow my way onto the railing of a Shinto shrine for a stellar view of the action. The opponents face each other off. One team has traveled from a small town in the west part of the prefecture. The other is from somewhere up north. No one in the crowd really knows or cares who wins, but in the spirit of competition, we and our newly-made Japanese acquaintances begin cheering for Futsumachi, the team whose cart is closest to us (incidentally, one of their guys gave us a free beer, so our allegiance became an iron bond).

The carts are as tall as two story buildings, every inch adorned with paper lanterns save for a small five by seven box in the back sporting a confused-looking marionette. Fifty or so folks dressed in traditional Japanese yukattas grab the four-inch thick ropes at the bottom and begin pulling the carts to the opposing corners of the street, all the time chanting ancient battle songs. A single man in the “driver’s seat” rhythmically clicks together two hollow wooden batons.

With a whistle from the officiator, the two carts take off full-speed toward each other. The whole town erupts in screams and chants. People climb over one another; a young girl on her father’s shoulder perks up for a better view. Suddenly, the chaos is muted by a half-second of silence and BAM: the two carts collide, lanterns flying everywhere, shockwaves knocking the cart pushers back. When the smoke clears, a few lanterns have gone out, one or two have fallen to the ground, and everyone appears to be fine. No one in the crowd knows which team has been victorious, but it doesn’t matter. The excitement of the moment has everyone cheering again: let’s have another go.

Into the wee hours of the night, teams of lantern warriors battle it out, ramming each other incessantly until one, for reasons unbeknownst to anyone observing this madness, finally concedes victory to the other. It’s an event which the scores of tipsy Japanese festival frequenters can’t help but feel the epic nature of. We step back for a few minutes to catch our breath when suddenly I feel a consoling pat on the shoulder from the old man standing next to me: our dear Futsumachi was eliminated in the first round.

Short video from the festival: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVfBUP8bo9w

Good-bye, My Dear Uncle...

I lost my Uncle Benny today. The call came in from the states while I was at work. As he was driving to a construction job early yesterday morning, the police found him on the side of the road slumped over his steering wheel. It was a heart attack.

I hadn't spoken to him since Christmas. We'd all but lost touch when I started traveling: that's the sacrifice you make when you spend most of your life thousands of miles from home. I was very close with him during my formidable years. When my father was bogged down with work in South Jersey, Uncle Benny took on the task of raising me for a little while. He coached me through dating girls, taught me how to cope with moving away from my friends, and even helped me with my homework (though in certain subjects, such as Algebra, all he could offer was "X+Y=Benny gets an F). I spent most of seventh and eight grade with UB, as I called him then, listening to Guns and Roses and sneaking up to his room to watch South Park, pretending I understood all the adult jokes. Today, all I can think of is the unfulfilled promise I gave him when I left for Japan, "Let's have a beer together when I get back."

But he would never have blamed me for not making good on my suggestion. Uncle Benny was in every sense of the word an innocent bystander. All the forces that weighed him down, all the crap the world would throw at him - he never invited it. His lifestyle wasn't any better or worse than anyone elses and yet fate often treated him with a contempt that perhaps even the greatest of us could not have withstood. It always frustrated and angered my mother to see Uncle Benny suffer the way he did - losing his children and first wife, battling addiction, going through a divorce - but he would just brush it off with a joke or a simple "don't worry about it, Kath."

And so as though straight from the pen of Arthur Miller, Uncle Benny's quiet death on the side of the road reflected his nature in life. He wouldn't have dragged it out or dramatized it by slowly deteriorating over months or years. He wouldn't have subjected us to hours of hospital visits, though we would have gladly been there everyday by his side. We feel frustrated and bewildered that he was plucked from our lives so abruptly, but it was just his way: to live when he was alive and die without making a fuss.

That was how it always was between this man and those of us who loved him. We wanted to throw our fists in the air whenever bad things happened to him. We felt that fate had indiscriminately singled him out for a life of pain and unfairness, but he didn't see it that way. Uncle Benny knew that a good life was not just smiles and laughter, but a range of different experiences - sadness, relief, pain, hope, fear, elation - and that it is these experiences which make us human. He was a man who for much of his life crawled through the mud and suffered in silence. But that mud, which often dominates our reflections of his life, was merely a lifeless, gray mass in his eyes - a lack of form, against which shone the bright and colorful things that gave him joy; family, friends, music, laughter. By living this way, he brought us so much joy as well.

Thank you, Uncle Benny. Thank you for being real, for being hillarious, and for never disappointing us. May you continue to inspire even after your body has left us.

Expanding Territory

When the ALT allows himself to get cramped in his little village in Toyama prefecture, wrapped-up in the social intricacies of the gaijin community or, conversely, sinks deep into the meditative recesses of youtube surfing, he is bound to forget that Toyama, Japan is famous throughout the whole of the nation for its nature. For this Wednesday's holiday my buddy James and I decided to remind ourselves of this fact.

10 kilometers out from our section of town along the banks of the Jinzu river brought us face to face with the endless expanse of the Sea of Japan. Stretching for as far as the eyes could see, Toyama's quiet, sandy beaches, interspersed with giant, concrete spikes (to break the waves) and the occasional city, had the modernist in me eagerly clicking his pen. For the next 12 kilometers, we would ride along this great body of water, feeling ourselves transition between worlds; the quiet suburbs, the abandoned factory districts, the isolated off-road, and the bustling urban centers. I soon got the sense of being a kind of bystander, an observer to man's drive to progress against his desire to preserve places for the masses to connect with their wild origins (which was subtly encouraged by the soft summer breeze and heat of the sun). As these two forces battled it out, every so often, the great mediator would appear from behind the trees to remind me of the eternal, the unconquerable: the great Tateyama.

Toyama prefecture's majestic Hida mountain range isn't refered to as "the Japanese Alps" for nothing. With snow covered peaks as high as 3,015 lightly outlined by tall, green hills, the range gives one the sense he has landed in Bavaria or Geneva. Tateyama is tallest of the mountains, an active volcano, and along with Fuji and Haku one of the three holy mountains of Japan. There is no mistaking the echos of Japan's mythical gods and monsters, long since banished to these mystical, far-out territories by a modern human society, exacting their revenge on trespassers who brave their most perilous passages. Indeed this disconnect from all things societal gave me a calming feeling on my midweek holiday and reminded me what a privilege it was to live in this beautiful countryside.

5 kilometers from a remote combini, we worked our way up a one of Hida's green hills; a tanuki flashed before our eyes and was gone in the thick labyrinth of flora and fauna (see my March post "Letting it All Hang Out"). With sweat drenching our entire body and sunburn slowly making its home on the back of our necks, we arrived at Tofukuju park; here's a nice place to relax and have a bite to eat I thought. We took a short walk around and enjoyed a game of Japanese park golf (a hairy, awkward love child of regular and mini golf) before the park abruptly closed, and we sped down the hill back towards home; the ride down, which was over an hour going up, took all of seven minutes.

A few hours on the road and I was back in my apartment. The soreness in my legs reminded me of the challenge of biking more than 40miles, and the rewards of all I had done and seen. I'm not certain what it is about natural beauty that connects with us so deeply; perhaps no matter how comfortably we build our little homes, we can never fully divorce ourselves from the grass and the dirt and the water from which our kind came to exist and to which we return after death. I played the day out over and over again in my head, falling asleep in the tiny block of concrete that I pay a monthly fee to call my own, carved into a vast metropolis of thousands just like it, remembering the exponentially more vast and wonderful world, which belongs to all of us.

Russia Cares...

Putin was on TV the other day bragging about how Russia spends a larger percentage of its budget on social institutions than Japan does. Apparently, only average Russian citizens understood the irony.

Lessons from Sodom

Whether you believe in the old story from the Torah or not, God's destruction of Sodom and Gemmorah as described in the book of Genesis provides a timeless lesson that transcends both society and religion: when people ignore basic human decency and civility and become entangled in a self-indulgent, hedonistic culture, eventually, they are doomed to chaos and destruction.

Dubai, the jewel of the United Arab Emirates, brings that old story back to the modern world. Many of you have seen the emails with photos of a desert bunker that in only thirty years became one of the worlds most futuristic looking metropoli. With expats from all over the world, million dollar hotels, and constant celebrity appearances ranging from Lindsey Lohan to Robert DeNiro, Dubai seems a true victory for capitalist ambition. Foreign investors and poor Arab workers flocked to the great city, lured by promises of great fortune and comfortable lifestyles. But what lies at the heart of the success of this once quiet desert village, and how will this define its future? Johann Hari's eye-opening report from the Independent shows us how Dubai is less like a paradise and more like Pleasure Island.

http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/johann-hari/the-dark-side-of-dubai-1664368.html

Letting it All Hang Out

Tanuki is one of Japan's most endearing characters. Beloved by both adults and children alike, this furry little guy can be seen just about everywhere you look: at the hot springs, in front of post offices, on the shelves of gift shops, and on the pages of comic books. He is based on a rare and undeniably cute species of animal known as the Japanese Raccoon Dog, which is native only to Japan, making his national icon status more than fully cemented among the population. In fact, one could easily compare him both in appearance and cultural significance to our Mickey Mouse or Russia's Cheburashka. But unlike his Russian and American counterparts, who are known for their unusually large ears, the Tanuki's oversized trademark is a much different appendage: namely, his testicles.

Sometimes making up as much as 40% of his little brown body, Tanuki's giant set of balls is difficult even for the most naive observer not to notice. They are oval-shaped in a brown scrotum and usually hang to the ground. What's even more astounding, though, is the wide range of supernatural things he can do with his giant spheres of life. Tanuki has been known to swing them around as he pleases, use them as wings to fly great distances, and provide humans who rub them with good fortune. One can often hear Japanese children chanting "tan-tan-tanuki's balls, there isn't even any wind and they still go swing-swing-swing." The old song "Do Your Ears Hang Low," when applied to the appropriate body part, paints an even clearer picture of Tanuki's fantastic abilities.

The prominence of this well-endowed creature in Japanese folklore seems to play to two sides of the national identity. First, it echoes the peculiarities of Japanese comedy, which relies heavily on fart jokes and potty humor to elicit laughter. Old children's folk songs often talk of caricatured giant penises and their exploits. "Hard Gay," a leather bound, loud and proud homosexual who roams the streets of big cities thrusting his genitals in unsuspecting pedestrians' faces is a kind of national hero. At the same time, there is an apparent comfort among the Japanese over the depiction of the male sexual organ: something absent from societies founded on principles of puritanism. Parents take their young children, both male and female, into the public baths without any reservations. Japan's Kinamara Matsuri, or Penis Festival (and yes, there is a corresponding Vagina Festival), features parades with giant iron and clay genitalia being hoisted upon able men and women's shoulders. While it may stir up controversy among western travelers, the Japanese tend to see their casual attitude towards human anatomy as an essential part of their culture.

The influence of the genitals on daily life in Japan is apparent, and even I can't avoid falling in line. The five man rock group of which I am the lead vocalist here in Toyama, for example, is called "O'pinpin", an obvious word play on the Japanese ochinchin meaning wiener or pee pee. Such a rude little moniker would seem to ruin any ambitions of becoming a family friendly, teen idol band a la Jonas Brothers. In fact, quite the opposite is true. Any worries over telling my students or superiors that I'm in a band essentially called "Ding Dong" or "Shlong" are quickly quelled by the ubiquitous reaction of a chuckle and a request to see us live.

And so I unabashedly rub the great sack of fortune hanging below Tanuki's mighty, round belly. It hasn't made me rich or unusually lucky, but it's good for a laugh.


Learn more about Tanuki: http://www.onmarkproductions.com/html/tanuki.shtml

Learn more about Japan's Penis Festival
http://sonletay.vox.com/library/post/pictures-of-japans-iron-penis-festival-kanamara-matsuri.html

Jesus: the Child from Hell?

Among early writings about Jesus of Nazareth was a short book written by an unknown author named Thomas. In it, Jesus is portrayed as a capricious, Damien-like divine brat who eventually learns to use his great power for the good of mankind. While the book is not part of the biblical canon, it was quite widespread and beloved by many early Christians. This is just one example of a virtual library of books, which were being circulated around the Palestine region within 200 years of the life and death of Jesus. It took decades of debate, rebuking, and even bloodshed before the prototype of modern Christianity was ironed out and the idea of a uniform holy text could be embraced. Reading it from a historical perspective, the Infancy Gospel of Thomas and its apparent popularity in ancient times gives insight into the various ways early Christians understood and interpreted the significance of the life and deeds of Jesus Christ. Though eventually scrapped by the church, the events of this and other so-called apocryphal books would later be integrated into Islamic holy texts.

Enjoy:

http://www.cygnus-study.com/pageinf.html

Ghost Stories

Yesterday I enjoyed an interesting discussion with a friend who believes he experienced a short encounter with a real live ghost. Not one to take things for face value, especially anything involving the spirit world, you can imagine my skepticism. But my friend insisted, "I saw it, John, it was right in front of my face! How can you explain that?"

A ghost, as defined by wikipedia, is a "disembodied spirit or soul of a deceased person." Belief about the origins of such ghosts tend to range from spirits tortured by unfinished business during their mortal lives to protectors warning humans of impending danger to demons from hell trying to possess human bodies. No matter the narrative though, all ghosts share one thing in common: no one has ever presented any definite proof that they exist. More than likely this lack of evidence can be attributed to the fact that they don't exist at all, at least not in the real world. Ghosts dwell in the realm of the imaginary: in books, movies, and, as is the subject of this essay, the human mind. I could call my friend a liar or delusional for claiming to have made contact with the other side, but I fully expect that were I in his position that night in that haunted park, I might have seen a ghost as well. How then can I explain the experience my unsuspecting comrade endured?

I can't.

The experience was personal. Not only was I not an eye witness to the events, but I didn't see the events through his eyes; I didn't feel what he was feeling, know what he knew at the moment of the occurrence. I have no reason to doubt my friend's sincerity, and it would be beyond haughty for me to presume what caused the aberration he saw. Thus, I can only offer a theory which works from the fundamental principle that there is no such thing as ghosts.

If I were to manually remove from the final straight portion of my large intestine some kind of statistic, I might say that 90% of all paranormal experiences follow one simple, generic rule: the faithful always find their evidence. In this particular case, that translates approximately as those who work from the premise that ghosts are real are much more likely to believe they've seen one. Astrology presents a rather astute example of this principle: followers of the ancient superstition are notorious for tracing banal events in their daily lives back to something they read in their horoscopes. "My horoscope said I would have a new experience today, and wouldn't you know it, they were out of pastrami at the deli, so I ate roast beef for lunch!" In fact, it was the faith of the horoscope reader that prompted him to make the connection. Perhaps last week the same deli was out of his favorite drink so he got some tea from the vending machine instead; he thought nothing of it though because his horoscope that day talked about something else.

In an episode of the television show "Ghost Hunters" (yes, I watch "Ghost Hunters", how embarrassing), the overzealous paranormal "scientists" and psychics visit a haunted inn in South Jersey. As usual, the misleading opening segment sets the viewer up for beyond belief ghost encounters that all turn out to be about as eerily convincing as a haunted hay ride. One particular scene stuck out in my mind more than anything. There was a room on the second floor where guests had reported experiencing "a feeling as though someone was there." Some even claimed that on a dark, rainy night in late August, they saw a figure move from the closet to the door and out of the room. An initial investigation by two members of the team confirmed the odd sensation, however, the men soon noticed a barely audible humming sound in the room. As they vigorously checked the room for ghosts, they noticed the humming was coming from the broken ceiling fan; the motor still ran but was disconnected from the actual fan apparatus. Thus, there was a very subtle hum from the fan motor yet no movement from the fan itself. This factor, plus the reputation for the room being haunted, had created an uneasiness in the room, which led to the guests' experiencing eerie sensations, and even perhaps, being in a half-asleep state, believe for a fraction of a second they saw something move about the room. An experiment placing two guests in the room at separate times, one with the fan on and one with the fan off confirmed their theory.

The fact is that most "eye-witness" accounts of ghost sightings can be traced back to two contributing factors: atmosphere and expectation. I will explain these two factors in my next post.