[In My Head]:: “Somehow, Scotland Yard, I’m not holding out much hope you’re gonna find my bike next week, let alone in 4 or 5 years given that your investigative technique to date seems to consist of drawing a map in crayon on a crumpled piece of paper and measuring the distance to random buildings. Not exactly C.S.I. up in this motherfucker, is it?”
[Out Loud]::”…ummm, if you find my bike in 6 years, you can just keep it as I’ll probably have bought a new one by then.”
“No, no, someone must take responsibility for the bike, even if just to pay for the disposal fee. More importantly, what about when we arrest the criminal? A case like this will remain active in Japan for seven years. If we arrest the criminal and send them to court, someone needs to press charges. If you’re gone, who will do this?”
“…umm, that’s okay, I don’t want to press charges. I just want my bike back.”
Part of the ease, I suppose, is that sign language isn’t like “regular” language – you don’t make sentences proper, you just sign the most “important” parts: subject, objects, main verb, etc. You don’t need to worry about all those other bothersome parts of language that make you sound like a retarded 3 year old monkey when you speak (what natives refer to as “particles”, “adverbs”, “tenses”, etc.), and given that my spoken Japanese basically goes something along the lines of “Me. Hungry. Eat.” or “Toilet. Hole. Ground. I. Poop. No.“, I find I’m already well on my way to the minimalist approach eschewed by sign language practioners.
And while it’s not the most inappropriate comment I’ve ever been subjected to in Japan (that dubious honor going to the intrepid junior high school boy who caught me off guard once with “hey panda-sensei, how big is your cock?” in perfect English (my snarky-yet-simultaneously-pathetic (insofar as I’m comparing penis size with a 12 year old) reply: “bigger than yours will ever be”, greeted with tremendous “oohs” and what I can only assume is the Japanese middle school equivalent of “snap!!!” and “awwww shit!” from his boys – penis measuring humor is universal it appears)) – nonetheless it seems to me that one doesn’t make a comment like “look at how huge you are” without having some sort of specific desired response in mind.
So I’m back in Japan. Whoo-hoo. Actually a lot of things have been going on here recently which have contributed to me not posting much of anything. Let’s start with my bike. The piece of crap I have to ride until my new bike arrives So I arrived in my new spiffy location down over…
A while back, some local first year high school students were given an assignment that required them to write a short story that started with the phrase “once upon a time” or “a long long ago”. Oh, and it had to involve a baby panda. These are three of my favorites: The charm of first…
“AAAARRRGHHH!!!” I curse, frustrated by both my failure to stop my car’s backward careening slide and inability to figure out what the hell “a vague deception of a dying day” means. I’m getting desperate – any second another car is going to come around the bend below me and I’m going to crash straight backwards into them. Or worse yet, I’m going to slide right into the living room of the house at the bottom of the hill. I struggle to remember the chapter in my driver’s ed book entitled “What to do if you’re sliding backwards down an icy hill in the middle of Japan and about to T-bone an old person’s house”…
WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE MOTHERF-ING BLACK JESUS WAS THAT!?” I bellow as my car starts to spin out of control, mud splashing up on my windshield, shocks creaking to absorb foot deep slime-filled potholes, the sound of ten thousand tiny gravel meteors flung up by spinning wheels at 70kph streaking through the air and denting the hell out of the car body. Tennis jolts straight upright in her seat desperately grasping for poor monkah (sent flying through the air from his vantage point on the dash as soon as we hit the gravel road) with one hand and the emergency stabilization handle above the door with the other. For one second, as the car starts to power slide (most unintentionally, let me assure you) through the gravel and mud towards a very painful looking ditch on the side, we catch glance of each others’ panicked faces and I imagine this is what rally car drivers and their helpless navigators must feel the second before they lose control around a hairpin loop and crash head on into a tree or catapult off the side of a cliff.
Looking in the mirror the other day, I noticed my hair was getting pretty shaggy. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought so, though, as I had heard (in the typical Japanese fashion) from a co-worker of a co-worker who was a friend of the section chief that the center chief wanted me to…
So startled and shocked was I by the sudden eruption and splashing of frigid toilet water in my poor nether regions that I involuntarily started, attempting to leap up from my agonizing crouched position, only to have my by-now numb legs and knees cry out in tremendous pain before giving out completely, whereupon I found myself tumbling down in an alarmingly out of control arc at the complete mercy of the unforgiving ministries of that evil bastard gravity, arms flailing out, mouth opening in a long, slow-motion “nnoooOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” which no sooner had left my lips than….
…Kita hands over the pizza and I pay him. He keeps glancing over at the alarm going off to the right and the senile old woman sticking her head out the door. I realize that if I don’t do something right now, I’m going to have to listen to that alarm all night long. And Mistar Dominos Delivery Man is my best chance to handle this situation without getting falsely arrested. I grab his arm.
“Kita is it?” I ask, looking at his nametag. I’m certain at this point that he must be no older than 18. “Mate, you need to come with me” I say to him. I take him by the sleeve and pull him over to the woman’s apartment. The old woman starts beckoning us to come in…