123 I Love You

Haiku No. 34-35 (regular posts to begin soon)

2009-06-02T05:33:00.000-07:00

35

My hobbies? Uno,
and rejecting folks before
they can reject me.

34

She was nothing to
write home about. For one, she
had a forehead dent.

Haiku No. 30-33

2009-05-17T03:30:00.000-07:00

33

I use the same notch,
but this time my belt's too short!
Weird and magic belt.

32

Driver's licence pic:
I show it to my student.
He says, "MURDERER."

31

It kind of bugs me
when people sit down too fast
on my bean-bag chair.

30

I hear some sex sounds
EEE! OOH! AHH! SUCK ON IT! BEEEEEEP!*
*it's my microwave.

Haiku No. 26-29

2009-05-02T02:58:00.001-07:00

29

Overcrowded world,
plus: the Mexican swine flu.
God...this is your chance!

28

Sam Cooke once sang this:
"Oh, She was only 16."
Pedophile alert!

27

Here is a true truth:
The Japanese cannot do
the human beatbox.

26

"Up and about." Hmmm...
Is it possible to be
up and not about?

Haiku No. 25 (I am still alive edition)

2009-04-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

Some small life changes.
Who needs legs/arms anyway?
Kidding (or *AM* I?).

Haiku No. 24

2009-03-07T18:18:00.000-08:00

24

Grandma calls the cat:
"Heeere pussy pussy pussy."
Sadly exciting.

Haiku No. 21-23

2009-02-27T16:45:00.000-08:00

23

Fine! I Admit it!
YOU ARE A PERFECT PERSON!
(But your butt? Still cracked.)

22

I’d like to slap you
for that thing you said to Neil
about my dog's smile.

21

Today I drew you.
You saw it and you said, “Yikes.”
Your eyes are weird though.

The Tiger Woods of Bowling

2009-02-16T05:04:00.000-08:00

It was our Friday teachers’ meeting, and we were trying to think of a fun, team-building activity for the weekend.

“How ‘bout bowling?” said Marg.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“That could work, that could work,” said Simon, using repetition for effect.

“Fuck bowling,” said somebody else.

It was me. I was sitting in the chair that gets the least sunlight. What I was doing was, I was holding my pencil by the tip and shaking it so that it looked like it was made of rubber.

“So, majority rules?” said one humorist (Simon).

We decided on bowling.

I’m not saying that I don’t like fun. I just don’t like bowling – or any activity whose success depends on fancy footwork, hand-eye coordination, upper body strength, and wearing rented footwear.

I was on a team with one other guy and two girls. For our team name we chose “Awesome Blossoms.” I don’t know why this name was chosen, because I was in the bathroom when it was decided. If I had been involved in the process, I like to think that the name would have been very different.

Our team quickly fell into an annoying ritual. If one of us got a spare, the others would give this person enthusiastic two-handed high-fives. I wasn’t getting any spares, so it soon became very irritating having to give my other teammates constant high-fives after their spares. I couldn’t stop giving high-fives, because that would have been childish. So instead, I made an "X" of my forearms whenever I gave them – to cancel out any hint of admiration. I hope the others noticed this (but not on a conscious level, because that could create tension at work).

Bowling is a sport of shame. I say this because, after every performance, you actually have to turn around and look your teammates in the eyes. By doing this, you are taking ownership for your throw. You are saying, “I did that. Please give me your feedback.” And your teammates are either saying “We approve,” or, “You are the embodiment of physical weakness.”

Whenever the ball left my hand, it would find the shortest possible distance to the gutter. I don’t know why. I tried everything. I tried follow-through. I tried doing a little twirl of my foot when I let go of the ball. I even tried a little-known move called “The Baby.” This involved cradling the ball in my arm before releasing it, to give it some spin. When I tried this, the ball didn’t even touch the alley. Instead, it collided with another customer. Coincidentally, he was holding a baby! Thankfully, bowling alley floors are made to withstand 10-pound objects falling onto them, and there was no damage whatsoever (to the floor).

The balls were beautifully colored: ochre, violet, and even vermillion. The ochre balls were the heaviest - weighing in at about 14 pounds. The vermillion balls, at 8 pounds, were the “women’s” balls.

After half an hour of tossing the ochre balls, my arm felt like it had developed advanced rheumatoid arthritis. After every gutter ball, I would suck in air through my teeth, wince, and return to my seat staring at my throwing arm, as if to inspect it for damage (but really, it was to avoid making eye-contact with my teammates).

“Gonna have to rub some cream on this when I get home,” I said to Simon.

Simon laughed, thinking that I was making a small joke. I guess everything is funny to Simon. I guess it would be fun to be able to find humor in the simple truths of life, like Simon does. I hope Simon enjoys going through life a jackass.

Eventually, I had to switch to the pretty 8-pound balls.

What troubled me was that the girls, even though they had the option of using the lighter balls, kept on using the heavier ochre balls, as if to mock me. It’s almost as if they were, through the device of the bowling balls, actually neutering me of my own balls – the ones between my legs! Especially Camilla, who, after getting strike after strike, would flex her arms in body-builder poses, and march right up to me to demand high-fives.

“Stop selecting the heavier balls!” I wanted to scream.

At the end of the games (we played two), everyone gathered around in a circle to go over the highlights. Marg got printouts of everybody’s scores, and she announced the top three. Then she read out the bottom three – of which mine was the lowest by far. It wasn’t even laughably low – it was frighteningly low. It was “This guy might have something seriously wrong with him” low.

But still, Simon found it funny.

“Look on the bright side Derek – if this was golf, you’d be Tiger Woods!” he said, playfully slapping me on the back.

“If this was golf, you’d be Tiger Woods!” I said in a voice that perfectly imitated Simon’s, but at a much higher pitch.

We went for ice cream.

Haiku No. 18-20

2009-02-13T05:38:00.000-08:00

20

In my fridge, ice grows.
Not knowing how to defrost,
I replace the fridge.

19

Do you say "icebox"
instead of saying "fridge"? Yes?
You are old at heart.

18

So dark and icy...
filled with rot of yes-ter-year.
My fridge? Or...MY SOUL?

Haiku No. 17

2009-02-10T18:21:00.001-08:00

They said you were cruel,
but oh, I defended you!
I thought they said "cool."

Haiku No. 16

2009-02-09T17:06:00.000-08:00

Lovely silk-smooth thighs...
exquisitely feminine.
Spandex: not my look.

Haiku No. 15

2009-02-05T06:51:00.000-08:00

Sorry for laughing.
I guess I just didn't think
that cats can get AIDS.

Haiku No. 14

2009-02-03T23:01:00.000-08:00

I woke up today,
and on my dick? A CLOWN nose!
Hey, we've all been there.

Haiku No. 6-13

2009-02-02T03:08:00.000-08:00

13

His name was Gaylord.
It's a name you don't hear much.
But still, it suits him.

12

Looking at the stars
reminds me of God's love. And -
my goddamn sore neck.

11

Please don’t be so vague.
"You’ve pronounced it wrong. It’s vague."
That’s what I said. Vague.

10

I jog to lose weight.
Why don't you take a picture?
It will last longer.

9

Lover, take my hand.
I have found my other half.
Prosthetics be gone!

8

Oh no! It is a
WORLD ECONOMIC CRISIS!
(I've switched to one-ply.)

7

"I did," I whispered.
Not a funny joke to make
after wedding vows.

6

Her birthday's next week,
but the word "Mom" looks so wrong
on my To Do list.

Haiku No. 4-5

2009-02-01T17:03:00.000-08:00

5

Alien-faced boy
screams, “MOM! I want to go home!”
Sadly befitting.

4

Ugly check-out boy
says, “I need paper bags.”
Yes...
in more ways than one.

Haiku No. 3

2009-01-31T17:04:00.000-08:00

I laughed at your joke...
but really, inside, it hurt.
Hope you like dead dogs!

Haiku No. 2

2009-01-30T17:58:00.000-08:00

Man does wheelchair tricks.
But soon it’s too late to say,
“Don’t lean back so far.”

Haiku No. 1

2009-01-29T00:37:00.000-08:00

A new world order!
Obama said he'll bring change!
¿Why am I still fat?

Hurling Through the Air

2009-01-19T05:33:00.000-08:00

On my flight home, I had an aisle seat. I always ask for an aisle seat. At least that way I know, if the plane starts to plummet from the sky, I will have the freedom to get up and stretch my legs before impact.

After 13 hours of flight, I had come to learn a few interesting things about the girl sitting next to me: she was Chinese, she was off to Kentucky to study human resources, and she had a very deep voice. Her name may have been something similar to “Juice of Apple” or “Juice of Abel” or "Juiceable," but since I asked her what her name was when they were serving drinks, I can’t be sure.

It was her first time coming to America, and she was nervous. I could sympathize. After having lived in Japan for a year, I know what it’s like to move to a foreign land where, when you say your name in a deep, manly voice, people think that you are calling out the names of beverages or other foodstuff. I told her that I would help her find her connecting flight to Kentucky, and she was very grateful. I was very grateful too, because my final destination was not Kentucky.

As the plane began its descent into Chicago, the girl started rubbing her stomach. “I do not feel good,” she said.

Me too! I did not feel good either! Because, when the girl said this, the first thing that popped into my mind was a montage of vivid images of her vomiting – against the window, into the magazine pouch, into my face-nose-eyes-ears-mouth – like an enthusiastic mother bird feeding its young.

“Are you going to...you know...?” I said, and I gave her the universal hand gesture for “vomit.” This is made by stroking the backs of your fingers under your chin and saying, “Uaaaaaah.”

Her body made a sudden, violent jerk, and she cupped her hands over her mouth. I started rummaging around frantically for the air sickness bag. When I found it, the girl snatched it out of my hands, put it up to her face, and leaned forward. The trouble with this little arrangement was, if she did let loose, part of it would probably end up on my knees.

“You know what?” I said. “Hmmm. Could you maybe...face towards the window?”

No response.

I pointed to the window. “Please look that way...so you don’t...you know...on my knees.”

She wasn’t listening, so I placed my hand on the top of her head and gently swiveled it towards the window. This wasn’t the most sensitive thing to do in the situation, I know, but I didn’t even care. Spending three hours in the Chicago airport waiting for my connecting flight with vomity pants isn’t exactly on my bucket list.

Every now and then the girl would turn around and look at me with a worried expression. I gestured for her to keep the bag up to her mouth, and sometimes I would also give her a thumbs-up signal. It was my humble way of saying, “You can do it. It will be the best. ”

The plane tilted and dipped. It tugged and jerked. It smelled of toilet and cooking, and I couldn’t tell which was which. It was very warm. A bead of sweat began to form at the top of my head.

“Yo man! I think I’m gonna huuuurl...,” a nearby man announced.

“I think we all are,” I whispered, with a great deal less bonhomie, and I started flipping through the pages of my duty-free catalogue.

Just when I was looking at a photograph of a fluted mahogany laundry hamper, the girl unleashed:

“UAAAAAAAAAAH! UUUUUUUAAAAAAAAH!” she said sweetly.

It was so loud that I actually thought she was horsing around. It was like the exaggerated sound someone would make if they were imitating someone vomiting. But I quickly discovered that she wasn’t joking, because, when I looked over at her, she was curled up against the window, and the black jacket on her knees was covered in a glistening sheen of stomach bile and ill-assorted food chunks. But is it art?

I was both sympathetic and repulsed.

“Are you going to be ok?” I asked.

I immediately regretted asked the question, because she turned to me with her mouth half-open, and strings of dripping bile were connecting her upper and lower lips. Her eyes were watering, and she made a loud sniff.

“Right...you don’t have to answer that,” I said, and slowly brought the duty-free catalogue back up to my face. I stared at a photograph of a sweatshirt that said, “What part of ‘y’all’ don’t you understand?” for what seemed like forever, and I think I kind of became one with it.

We landed just when I was starting to entertain wild fantasies about seizing control of the aircraft by force and sending it into a controlled nose dive.

As the other passengers were gathering up their luggage and leaving the plane, I stayed with the girl. After all, I remembered promising to help her find her connecting flight. She was not getting out of her seat.

“Go, go,” she finally said, waving me off. “Go.”

“Good luck in Kentucky,” I said.

I did not know what else to say to her, but I didn’t want the last word that passed between us to be “Kentucky.” Really, after what we had been through, I knew that mere words would never be enough. So, instead of speaking, I decided to use the universal language of human touch.

I reached out to pat her on the shoulder to let her know that it would be all right, but, in an effort to minimize contact between the surface areas of our respective bodies, I ended up just kind of pulling a loose thread from her sweater - one that must have been pretty integral to sweater as a whole, because, when I pulled it, the "loose thread" just kept getting longer and longer.

"Goodbye," I said, speaking the international language of English.

"Go," she said.

With that, I dropped the thread - not just of her sweater, but also of our conversation.

A Travel Tale Told by an Idiot

2009-01-11T19:16:00.000-08:00

December 27th, 2008, 7:16 am

I am on my way to the airport. This is the day that I fly back to Canada from Japan.

In the train, I am standing up and facing the doors. On the doors, there are three black smudges. I begin trying to line up the shadow of my head with these smudges so that they look like eyes and a mouth. The train is jerking back and forth, so it’s not easy. When I finally manage to do it, I have a kind of out-of-body experience. I am able to look down and see myself grinning at the shadow-face that I have created on the train door. This makes me very sad, and yet also very happy – because, after all, I have made a face.

8:12 am

I am at the airport and walking to the American Airlines counter to check in my baggage.

I am so focused on trying to find the counter that I accidentally run into a boy who has bright red hair, and I knock a candied pipe out of his mouth. He glares at me and picks up his pipe and dusts it off. His face is so grumpy that, for a second, he looks like a real old man with a real pipe. He curses me, but his words are just jibber-jabber. He says, “Brajabijababubrasha.” Maybe it is Portuguese, but is it possible for Portuguese people to have red hair? Of course not!

I realize that I have no idea what a Portuguese person looks like. I make a mental note to Google “Portugal” when I get home. If I remember, that is. Which I won’t.

9:09 am

I am waiting at the gate to board the plane.

My stomach does not feel good. This is partly because I will be spending the next 13 hours of my life sealed inside a metal tube, breathing in recycled burps and farts, and watching re-runs of the “hilarious” show Monk. I am also not feeling good because, the previous night, when I went out for dinner with a local doctor and his son, I ate the part of a shellfish that you aren’t supposed to eat.

When I put it in my mouth, I said, “This is very bitter,” and I swallowed it.

The doctor said, “It is the bad part. Please don’t eat it.”

“It was poo,” said his son, grinning.

I gently placed my chopsticks in front of me and stared down at them. The doctor and his son probably thought that I was admiring their intricate design, but really, I was trying to align the shadow of my head with them so that they would look like a mouth.

9:35 am

I am still waiting at the gate.

I see the red-haired little boy again. He and his mother come and sit beside me. The boy has a fresh candied pipe in his mouth. The pipe itself is made of black licorice, and small specks of red candy have been sprinkled on the end to simulate burning embers. I truly love the smell of a pipe.

The mother glances over at my notepad – the notepad on which I’ve been recording these idiotic travel experiences. The words at the top of the page are, “I see the red-haired little boy again.” She grabs her luggage and her son’s hand and moves to another part of the room – at the maximum possible distance from me and my notepad.

I notice now that the boy’s hair really is a remarkable shade of red. I wonder if that hair will be a boon or a bane to him in later life? Ron Howard did quite well, but the guy from the Partridge family? Not so much.

10:01 am

I begin to play my favourite airport game. It is called, “Name the Distinguishing Feature.” What I do is, I look at the people around me, and I try to come up with their most distinguishing feature as quickly as possible.

Unibrow! Sweet eyes! Paralyzed from the waist down! Could he be a terrorist?

You should try to remain silent when you’re playing this game, especially if the most distinguishing feature is “full-blown acne.” It is impossible for me to stress this enough.

10:26 am

We begin boarding the plane. As I approach my seat, a very large woman (she would be “triple chin” in the “Distinguishing Feature” game) asks me to help her put her bag in the overhead compartment. Weird how she’d ask me, because, if she were to play the “Distinguishing Feature” game with me, her answer would probably be “needs more protein in his diet.”

I have never lifted anything so heavy in my life. I would have preferred to stuff her into the overhead compartment. What had she filled her suitcase with? Molten steel? A black hole? Starr Jones? As I struggle with it, I look down and see a sly-faced man grinning up at me, taking immense pleasure in my suffering.

“Is it goin’ in there?” the woman says to me.

“It doesn’t seem to want to – ”

“Go on! You got to really ram it in there – ”

I look down at the man again, and he is smiling more than ever, because the woman’s words have made it sound like she and I are having rough sex. This adds a hint of dirtiness to everything that I say after.

“I can’t! I don’t think it’s going to fit!”

“PUSH!”

“I am pushing!”

“Oh, don’t worry ‘bout it then,” says the woman. “If you can’t get it in, you can’t get it in.”

“Ok!” I say, and I let go of the suitcase, thinking that she has it. She doesn’t, and it comes crashing down onto the smiling man. He stops smiling and pretends to go to sleep. He keeps this charade up for the entire flight. Silly little guy.

11:03 am

And we’re off.

Joshua Ferris (thank you)

2009-01-07T19:27:00.000-08:00

It is not often that I recommend books on this online magazine (it is not a blog).

In fact, I have never done it. I’m hoping that, since this is my only book recommendation in four years, it will carry some special weight.

This isn’t to say that I haven’t written about books in the past. I have – but it’s usually only to belittle them because I didn't understand them and I am very angry about that. I'm not proud to admit it, but I once got so angry at Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time that, after the first chapter, I flipped the book over and, while staring at his smarmy-smiling photograph and burning holes through it with my eyes, I said, "I am glad that you are in a wheelchair."

A little while ago, in this online magazine, I complained about George Eliot’s Middlemarch because I didn’t understand it. Do you know how frustrating it is to get through a 900-page study of 19th-century provincial life and not understand it? No? Neither do I. Because I only read the first three pages and the blurb on the back! But I can only imagine how frustrating it would be. Even after reading the cover blurb, I still have trouble talking about the book.

For example, I might casually approach someone at a cocktail party and say,

“Are you like me and have you read George Eliot’s Middlemarch?”

“No, I haven’t. But it is a seminal work of English -”

“I have. I have read it. I have read George Eliot’s Middlemarch.”

“Well...good for you. Did you enjoy it?”

“Enjoy it? I WORSHIP it. How any man could have created such a stunning portrait of female psychology is beyond me.”

“George Eliot was a woman. Her real name was Mary Anne Evans.”

“Well, some people even say Shakespeare was a woman, but he wasn’t.”

“No. George Eliot was definitely a woman. Just Google her.”

“You are a woman and I will Google you,” I say, making the "quote" marks with my fingers and not really even knowing what those quote marks represent. Then I move to the darkest corner of the room and sip the remainder of my cocktail – all the while glaring at the person who I’ve read more books than and who I know more than and who will never win at the game of life because I am the true winner and my trophy is his shame.

This is not turning out to be a very pleasant book review. I haven’t even mentioned the book I am reviewing yet, which is Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris.

I will be brief.

I am always on the lookout for very funny books. I also enjoy very sad books. Only a special author, in my mind, can unite funny and sad in a single work. Ferris does this – and sometimes even on a single page. “Funny” and “sad” are not words that do his novel justice, though. Maybe “hilari-haunting” would work, if it were a real word. There are certain passages that were truly...hilari-haunting.

The story is set in a large advertising firm on Chicago's Michigan Avenue. Most of the humour is generated by the office gossip of the characters, but that's not to say that the book is just a collection of the trivial. On the contrary, there are some large, scary questions that loom in the minds of these characters. Is Lynn Mason, the esteemed company parter, actually suffering from breast cancer? And what about Tom Mota, the misogynistic copywriter who is obsessed with the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson? After he is laid off, will he exact revenge by going on a shooting rampage?

Not the stuff that comedy is typically made of, I know, and this is why I ask you to read it for yourselves. Let me also add - the ending rocks.
I have not received such a return on my money in a very long time.

And for those of you who have read it, I leave you with a final question…

What happened to Joe Pope?

Putting the "stmas" back in Christmas

2008-12-23T16:38:00.000-08:00

For the past few days, I have been naked and at the greatest of ease.
I have been at a famous Japanese hot spring resort, enjoying the soothing medicinal waters and coming to the gradual realization that, no matter how hard I scrub, I can never scrub away the "me." Did that get weird?

Would you believe it if I told you that, at one point in the three days, I slapped an elderly Japanese woman in the face with a wet towel? If you refuse to believe it, it means that you do not know me very well. But don't worry - ten years ago, if someone had said to me, "One day Derek, when you are naked, you will slap an elderly Japanese woman (who will also be naked) in the face with a wet towel," I wouldn't have believed it either.

Here is how it happened.

A group of teachers went to the hot spring - and there were separate bathing areas for men and women. Each of us were given a small towel to bring into the bath with us. For some reason (perhaps all of the heat and steam had addled my senses?), I decided that it would be a good idea to throw my towel over the partition dividing the men's bathing area from the women's - you know, just to spice things up a bit.

After I did this, I heard the sweet slapping sound of a wet towel striking naked flesh. I said, "How ya like me now?" and then sank down into the water, smiling cruelly and twiddling the tips of my fingers together - the extent of my satisfaction being directly proportional to the slapped person's shock and annoyance. Then I heard one of my female co-workers say, "Oh my God, I am so sorry." This was followed by a sputtering/coughing sound, and, shortly thereafter, a door slamming.

A staff member came into the men's bathing area and more or less yelled at us for throwing things over the partition. Being yelled at when you have no clothes on is so much more humbling than being yelled at when you have clothes on. I almost felt naked in my shame. On the other hand, I also felt a bit saucy for receiving the lecture while floating lazily in the medicinal waters and making little circles with my arms and legs.

When we regrouped after the bath, the girls told us that my towel had struck an elderly women in the face. It hadn't just struck her, but it had actually opened in mid-air, so, when it collided with her, the towel ended up enveloping her entire face, which was not at all what I had expected.

Fortunately I will soon be visiting Canada for ten days, so, by the time I return to Japan, all of the excitement from this little incident should have died down.

And with that, I wish you and your families a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. May this be the year that you achieve your dreams, or at least summon the courage to pursue them.

Thank you for continuing to tune in.

Derek.

Carbon-Based Life Form

2008-12-10T06:12:00.000-08:00

The amount of paperwork that I have to do for my job is unbelievable. It is almost like a joke.

Today, for example, I spent three hours doing paperwork. That’s 60 x 60 x 3 seconds (you do the math, because I have a bit of paperwork to do). When I am doing my paperwork, I sometimes imagine my heart beating in my chest, and this makes me very sad, because I know that the human heart has but a finite number of beats allotted to it, and at least 60 x 60 x 3 of my heartbeats were just spent making little squiggles (that nobody ever reads) onto a pad of carbon-copy paper (that nobody ever reads).

Often, when I am making my precious squiggles, tiny teardrops fall from my eyes and form little puddles on my report pad. This is typically when I fly into a rage, because it means that I have to rip out the original page and its duplicate and begin my squiggles all over again. I start wondering if this is how serial killers get their inspiration, and I make a mental note to Google “Serial killer” and “squiggle” when I get home.

I know that I am making it seem as if these squiggles are worthless, but my very livelihood depends on whether or not I make them each week. It would not be a great leap of the imagination to say that, if I were to refuse to write my squiggles, I would soon starve and have to wander about naked on the streets. You’d think that, if I were starving and naked, I would just stay put in my apartment, but no. I wouldn’t.

I know that I should be engaged in other, more worthwhile pursuits – like finding love or chasing my dreams. But again, no. When the choice came between “living your life” and “making squiggles,” I went for the option that included the word “squiggles.” So, when people gather around my deathbed 10 years from now and say to me, “Did you have a good life Derek? And by the way, where do you keep the Doritos?”, I will say, “No. Life was a long, drawn-out, sickening struggle. And there was never enough toilet paper. But you know what? I always got my squiggles in on time. The Doritos should be in the cupboard.”

Then I will exhale a great breath, and my eyes will become fixed on some point in the distance. People will say, “I think he’s gone now.” But I won’t be. It’s just a game that I like to play with them. Instead, I will be thinking of Jell-O (especially the kind with little bits of fruit inside it).

I was intimately involved in a grisly murder.

2008-12-01T03:14:00.000-08:00

Mine may not be the most exciting of lives, but also, it is not very interesting.

When I turn on the news and I read about political violence, sexual scandal, or natural disasters, I often take a swig of milk and say to myself, “I would probably sacrifice 10% of my worldly comfort for a bit of spice in my life.” But when I think about how neat it is that my slippers are warm and that my milk still tastes fresh when the expiry date has long since passed, I say, “Okay, maybe just 5%.”

This is the world I live in. This is the world I know. So, when murder and mayhem come knocking at my chamber door – and I mean this literally – it comes as a great relief.

Last week, when I told my mother about the grisly, mysterious murder that I had been intimately involved in (I will tell you about it shortly), we were both taken aback. I was surprised because I had made a private vow not to tell her about it at all. I know how tightly wound she is, and how likely she is to blow everything out of proportion. As I was dialing her number, I was even whispering to myself, “Do not mention the murder. Do not mention the murder. Do not mention the murder.” This didn’t seem so weird to me, but when I put myself in the shoes of the other people who were sitting around me in Starbucks at the time, it does.

The phone rang twice, and my mother picked up. I was in such an agitated state over the events of the morning that, I am ashamed to say, the first words out of my mouth were,

“THERE WAS A MURDER LAST NIGHT IN MY APARTMENT BUILDING!”

“A what?!” my mother said.

“A MURDER, MOTHER! THERE WAS A MURDER IN MY VERY BUILDING!”

My mother freaked. She dropped the phone. She called my father to get on the extension. The two of them then proceeded to interrogate me to such a degree, with each question demanding such an intimate knowledge of the crime, that, even if I had committed the murder with my own two incapable hands, I would scarcely have been able give them the answers they needed.

I could only tell them what I knew.

And here is the tale I told…

***

It all began with a bloodcurdling scream at 9 o’clock on a Saturday morning.

It was a woman’s scream, and it came from somewhere below my balcony. I thought of racing downstairs to offer my help, but then, what if the horrible thing was still there, being all bloodcurdling? I thought of calling 911, but what if the person at the other end didn’t understand English? I don’t know the Japanese word for “woman,” let alone the words for “scream” and “emergency” and “possible homicide.” These are words that I’ve only ever had to use when my family is nearby, so I’ve never bothered to learn them in Japan.

Finally, I thought of writing the words “It’s going to be OK” on a paper airplane and floating it down, on the fragrant morning breeze, to where the woman was, and I was so impressed by what a good person I was to even consider such a thing, that I drifted off to sleep again.

I don’t know how long it was that I slept, but I was later awoken by an abrupt knocking at my apartment door. I got out of bed, grumbling. I put on my slippers, and went over to greet my early morning visitor.

I opened the door, and the man standing before me was a Japanese version of Robert Deniro. The only difference was that this man had salt-and-pepper hair and a warm smile.

I was embarrassed, because I hate it when Japanese people see my dirty, pathetic little genkan in the mornings. The genkan is the area where you remove your shoes before entering a Japanese home. Most Japanese genkans are perfectly swept, and the shoes are all neatly arranged with Howard Hughes attention to detail. Basically, my genkan always looks like shit. There’s an open bag of garbage in the corner, and the shoes are thrown haphazardly all over the place. The smell is the opposite of wholesome. On this particular day it was so dirty that my visitor must have thought I’d defaced it with my filth on purpose, as if to spite 2000 years of Japanese etiquette.

The man and I stared at each other for a few seconds. He was nervously running his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair until he finally came out with it: “I am a Japanese detective.”

“Nihongo dekinai,” I said. I can’t speak Japanese. This was ironic, because I said it in Japanese.

“I cannot speak English,” he said. This was ironic, because he said it in English.

Just when things were getting so ironic that I thought we were auditioning for roles in Oedipus Rex, the sleuth whipped out a pad of paper, and he began drawing a map of my apartment building and the surrounding area.

He pointed to my building and said, “Man catch a die here. Your building.”

“Man catch a die?” I said. “Come again?”

“Man fall. He catch a die. Woman finds man.”

Suddenly it clicked. The detective meant that a man in my building had fallen and died. The screaming woman must have been the one who had found the body.

Some of us catch colds, others catch incurable diseases, and, I guess, an unfortunate few of us even “catch a die.” I thought of calling into work and saying, “Sorry, I can’t come in to work today. I have come down with a nasty case of... the DIES.” I smiled sweetly.

The detective asked me several questions: Had I heard anything? Did I have any enemies? Did I commit the grisly murder? I tried my best to answer him. He too was smiling all the while, because, after all, nothing is more wonderful than a white man standing in his boxers in a breezy doorway, early on a Saturday morning amid the chirping of birds, trying to persuade a Japanese Robert Deniro that he did not throw another man off his balcony. The detective was smiling with his mouth, but his eyes were saying, “I suspect that you have committed murder.”

When we finished our conversation, I offered the detective some chamomile tea, and he politely declined. I was glad, because I couldn’t think of a more awkward situation than drinking tea with this man – what, with the age difference and the language barrier and my possibly being a murderer and the fact that I actually didn’t have any chamomile tea. Maybe he had detected that.

***

On an interesting social note – when I tell my students about the murder, it doesn't bother them at all.

In fact, people’s spirits noticeably pick up every time I mention it. My students come into the classroom, I casually mention the murder, and we are soon making jokes about how my apartment building is a haven for prostitutes, drug addicts, and killers, and about how I might be the next one to "disappear." Maybe they are just happy because murder is more interesting than making complete sentences – or maybe it is because my life now seems to be in more peril than they previously imagined. Or hoped.

Since the murder, my whole vocabulary has changed. I now have to begin and end almost all of my sentences with, “Before the murder,” or “After the murder.” When I do, people look at me with new respect, and they become silent, because they know that I have seen more, experienced more, and learned more than they ever will. They might say to me, “Have you seen the new Bond flick yet Derek?” And I will say, “Yes. I saw it just before the murder.” Or they will say, “Have you ever been involved in a grisly, mysterious murder Derek?” And I will say, “Yes I have. What about you? Oh wait, I already know the answer. No you haven’t.”

Sometimes I will even try to implicate myself in the murder to create an air of mystery. For example, people might say, “What were you doing on the night of the murder Derek?”, and I will suddenly try to look very nervous by wiping my brow and darting my eyes back and forth.

Of course, most people don’t really think that I committed the murder, but they can never say for sure, and I think that adds another little tile in the overall mosaic that is me.

A Neat Thing to Do in the Morning

2008-11-23T00:02:00.000-08:00

This would be a neat way to greet your loved one in the morning:

Wait until the loved one has gone downstairs and is engaged in some solitary pursuit – reading the newspaper, watching TV, or sitting at the kitchen table with his face buried in his hands, dreading another day at work, and entertaining thoughts of beginning life anew in an artists’ colony in the interior of Australia.

Go up to him softly, tenderly, and begin whispering in his ear. Begin whispering, I say, but build up to a great crescendo: crying, screaming, and maybe breaking his "Pobody's Nerfect" coffee cup.

Say to him the following words:

Have I ever told you that I love you?

Yes, it is true. I love you. I love you with all my heart. I love you with my soul. I love you for the man that you are, and I love you for the man that you dream of being, but who you can never – must never! – become. I love you for every sign of your innate goodness – signs that, try as you might to conceal them, are still as obvious as they would be if some dull blade had etched them into your brow in an ornate font. I love you for the better angels of your nature, and also for the worse devils – perhaps more for the devils! It is true! I love you for the magnificent and bloody crimes that you dream of in your innermost heart when all the world is asleep, and I love you for that rich elixir of sweetness that you can pour on men, women, and children with a single word – NAY! – with a single glance! I LOVE YOU ENOUGH TO CARVE A GREAT WOODEN MONUMENT TO YOU EVERY MORNING, WORSHIP IT BY THE LIGHT OF THE NOONDAY SUN, AND THEN BURN IT TO THE GROUND EVERY EVENING – ALL THE BETTER TO PROCLAIM, MY DEAR, YOUR GLORY TO THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE YET TO KNOW YOU, AND TO THE GODS WHO ALREADY ADORE YOU!

SO GREAT IS MY LOVE!

SO GREAT IS MY DEVOTION!

SO GREAT IS MY PASSION!

Is the coffee still on?

***

Please do this and record the experience. To record it, you may use a video camera, a microphone, or a quill pen and a bit of parchment. When you’re finished, bury everything in a time capsule, wait 50 years, and unearth it.

Relive the experience again with your loved one, and say, “Wasn’t that a good one? Didn’t we have fun?”

WTF Mondays, Part II (Live From Japan!)

2008-11-16T20:48:00.000-08:00

This first photograph is of an adult club near my apartment.

I think they call it "Showboat" because the girls "show" you their boobies, and, if you go in there, you are morally adrift in a great sea of sin. Showboat.

I know it is an adult club because, every time I pass by, a pimply faced, leering man in a filthy “Godzilla” sweatshirt always approaches me from the entrance and makes a “squeezing” gesture with his two hands. Either this means that he is the proprietor of a touchy-feely bar, or he wants me to go to the local grocery store and pick him up some honeydew melons.

What is great is how the “w” in “Showboat” has been made to look like a pair of pendulous, perfectly formed breasts. I like to think that, if I were designing an adult club sign, I would think of making the letters look like privates too.

Here is the sign outside a local eatery:

Yes - you’re right! It really IS a smack of the lips! And, if I might also add, David Copperfield and the Seven Pillars of Islam-Lollipop on a Sunday afternoon.

Before the dinner rush every day, the staff of this restaurant assembles in front of the entrance, forming two perfect columns. Then, at precisely 5:30, the team leader stands in front of the columns, and he begins shouting slogans, which the workers echo back in unison, all the while pumping their fists in the air. I can’t understand Japanese very well, so I can’t tell if they are vowing to serve high quality food or to wipe out entire races of people in the name of the Fatherland. I really should start listening to those language CDs again.

The first time I saw this demonstration I was biking to the grocery store to buy some honeydew melons, and they all bellowed “WELCOME, CUSTOMER” to me at the same time, grinning hysterically. In fact, the same thing had happened to me in a nightmare only two nights before - the only difference being that, this time, I wasn’t naked and oiled, and the black, unicycle-riding Mr. Belvedere was nowhere to be seen.

***

If you take a walk along any river in my city, you will almost certainly see a statue of one of these mischievous river imps, known as “Kappa.”

On the tops of their heads they have dishes filled with water. Based on what I’ve gathered from local lore and Wikipedia, if you do anything to upset the dish of water, the Kappa creature will fly into a rage, tear your body into bits, and scatter your bloodied, broken limbs along the water’s edge. Kappa also enjoy playing the flute and eating cucumbers. It can be fun learning about new cultures.

I was in the tiny little bathroom of my favorite bar when I snapped this next photo.

If you look carefully, you will see a little dish just behind the toilet. I was wondering what it was, and, on closer inspection, I discovered that it was a mound of salt. This made me ask myself: Why? I can think of practically no situation where, after using the toilet, I would say to myself, Needs more salt.

I had come to this bar with another teacher. She told me that, when I was in the bathroom, she had seen a blinding flash of white light come out from under the bottom of the bathroom door. I assumed that this was the camera flash. Since I had no ready explanation for why I would ever snap a photograph in the bathroom, I pretended to be choking. This seemed to satisfy her.

What you are looking at here is the little silver decal behind my toilet at home. On it are written detailed instructions about how to use this toilet. Again, I ask myself: Why? Who has ever stood in front of a toilet, ready to go, and thought, WHOAH! – What the hell? Where do I even start?!

I don’t what is more disturbing – the fact that my toilet comes with detailed, diagrammed instructions, or the fact that I consult these instructions every time I go. But, where else would I have learned that the angle formed between your back and the toilet seat should be no less than 25 degrees, but no more than 30?

And finally, I leave you with the most ironic bike in the world. Not only is there no baby, but there is no car. And the picture of the "baby" is not a baby at all, but a monkey-baby hybrid. Ain't he the cutest?