Now What?

I’m going to start this one with the signature sanitized praise you have come to expect when I comment on the current state of my beloved homeland. I promise, I will shift toward an emotional take on a momentous occasion.

I was 15 years old, talking to aunts, uncles, cousins, a grandmother, and other relatives, when my beloved great uncle noticed a toe or two protruding through the sole of my left shoe. He told me in his typical (appreciated) bluntness, “You need new shoes, kiddo.”

I replied, “I guess.”

He came back with, “Get some new shoes,” to which I replied, “I don’t have any money.”

Well, I’m not sure if mi padre also noticed my podiatric predicament independent of my grandmother’s brother, or if one gave the other some instructions, but when I got home after a car ride during which I bitched relentlessly about the state of The States, my dad gave me 60 big ones. He told me to buy myself some new shoes. I stubbornly said, “I have better uses for 60 bucks. I’m not going to use this for shoes.” I was talking about my credit card bill and car payment.

Oh yeah, I lied. This happened when I was 29.

Yes. I know. I got too much car, but at the time I entered the lease, I was cash rich and assumed I would land at least an OK gig.

But you see, as the American market pays you exactly what you’re worth, my clearly disqualifying ineptitude and debilitating laziness had me making under one thousand dollars a month. I could have sought more work, but I also went to school full time for a year in hopes of becoming a history teacher and relied on my savings to sort of… wait for something better. I mean something better than under a thousand dollars a month, not something better than being a teacher because I can’t think of anything that really is.

Just a quick aside, I’m pretty sure an episode in which I earned some of the points that would eventually add up to me being selected as one of three Captains of my high school football team was when I told my coach I was ready to practice (everyone hated practice) a day after suffering a deep thigh contusion (kneecap straight to the femur; black and blue as far as the eye could see) and upon being told, “You need to be cleared by a doctor,” I replied, “Do I have to wait until after practice? Can I go get cleared now then come back and suit up for whatever time is left?”

Anybody who knows me will tell you there are two things I lack: work ethic and energy. Yeah man, I’m a miserable waste. I deserved those ratty shoes.

I must mention that I realize this is a long complaint about how tough I had it, and I was extremely fortunate to benefit from the mercy of family and all kinds of privilege. I absolutely chose to use those privileges to slowly but surely set myself up for better things. But god, did it take some patience.

Then I got a quote for treatment of a bad toothache that added up to a month’s pay. Then I fainted and hit my head while walking to the table for Mothers Day brunch and told an ambulance driver to fuck off because I wasn’t paying a few thousand dollars for a five mile ride and a saline drip.

My complaint here is not that America didn’t value me (she didn’t, though) or that I got a raw deal (I did not, just a pinch of mild adversity). I just wanted to get my fucking tooth looked at and not have to do a cost benefit analysis of continuing to pursue my teaching certification.

Anyway, it was about then (perhaps summer) in 2014 that I finally came to the conclusion that, “Fuck this shit,” I should just go back to Japan.

I started drawing up a scheme. I came up with a five year plan to be executed over the subsequent six years. Here it is.

2015 Summer: Get back to Japan via the exchange program I used from 2009 to 2012, except as a government office worker rather than an English teaching assistant.
2017 Summer: Move to Tokyo to run that same exchange program for the national government.
2020 Summer: Parlay those two experiences into — if I’m lucky — a decent job with some kind of foreign company in Japan.

The first step was not quite a long shot, but it was far from guaranteed. I needed to improve my Japanese language abilities and wrestle with what is often seen as a competitive yet arbitrary application process.

Not only did I get into the program, but I was sent to the exact office in which I wanted to work: the Miyagi Prefecture International Affairs Division in Sendai. Check.

While there, I worked harder than an outside critic might acknowledge. Even today, some friends think I’m still teaching English on a sort of Japanese holiday, but from 2015 to 2017 I was working for the weekend as a civil servant, executing almost all tasks in my second language.

I got way out ahead of the application process to run the program (my goal for 2017). I even worked directly with the organization in charge on various projects to get on their radar. In a still much more competitive application process for a much more prestigious and highly-paying job, I somehow stood out enough to get the call, right on schedule. Check.

I was limited to three years of service, so, always on a ticking clock (not in the sense that we’re all on a ticking clock, but subject to a literal contractual limit) I worked in the most professionally rewarding and personally challenging job of my life, again primarily in my second language. Also again, I worked harder than an outside critic might acknowledge.

Then out of nowhere, I got a great job offer that effectively meant the conclusion (achievement) of my five year plan exactly five years after it began, a full year ahead of schedule.

As of Monday I will be in uncharted waters. Tomorrow is the last day of my five year plan.

I did it.

Evolved Taste

This is about as nutty a post as I will ever write, but waaaaait for it…

I am a scientist.

PART I: Pew Research

Pew Research is an American organization that self-describes as, “a nonpartisan fact tank that informs the public about the issues, attitudes and trends shaping the world.” They, “conduct public opinion polling, demographic research, content analysis and other data-driven social science research,” and, “do not take policy positions.”

To try to put it simply, Pew aims to measure and document various aspects of global society.

So when they published a study in 2009 that detailed the proportional representation of Americans who do not believe in evolution and those who do believe in evolution (with the subcategories of evolution as a result of a natural process and evolution guided by a god), Pew was not trying to make a statement about the legitimacy of either category or either subcategory of those who believe in evolution.



I am.

PART II: Teach the Controversy

“Teach the Controversy” is a movement that exerts political influence to try to force American schools to brainwash children with the idea that evolution is a theory, which the movement’s patrons intentionally conflate with speculation, and that equal or greater weight should be given to the idea that a big salacious dick lurks over his toy planet and moves his little action figures (us) around as he sees fit, predicated of course on how well we behave.

They want to throw the cumulative data of all human observation — from the discovery of fire to the age of landing rockets on barges after launching them into space more than once — into the ring with ghost stories written more than 500 years before humanity really started getting close to possessing the technology to make glass windows a reality, and then let people who think Africa is a country in South America figure out which of the “controversial” “theories” is true.

One is a theory and is true; the other is folklore and is false.

PART III: The Science of Evolution (in the form of common sense)

The science of evolution does not require leaps of faith (“I see God all around me.”), and it does not require circular reasoning (“Then explain why in Genesis it says…) or feelings-as-proof reasoning (“If you find a wristwatch on a sandy beach…”) in order to be believed. It requires a simple conversation about sex and shit.

As is typically the case in this blog, when I say “shit”, I mean feces.

Below are two examples of natural selection.


Or more specifically, sexual reproduction…

Perfectly normal. We’re all products of it. Settle down.

Reproduction allows for the passing of genetic material to subsequent generations. The catch, though, is that a genetic code is not passed exactly as it exists one parent. Obviously, that is because it is combined in sexual reproduction to create offspring that posses some genes from each parent.

With the understanding that every child has genetic material from each parent, it must be accepted that no child is an exact copy of either parent.

That doesn’t mean anything on its own, though. This combination of genetic material could be imagined to just recycle a finite gallery of traits. The real kicker is selective breeding, a key element of natural selection and driving force of evolution.

Natural selection, in 2018 human terms, could be crudely explained by saying, “The most attractive (not necessarily physically) people get to reproduce the most.”

In prehistoric and ancient times — and even modern times in the cases of perhaps all other animals — attractiveness could be likened to physical superiority. That’s the meaning of the term “survival of the fittest”.

If there is a group of prehistoric primates walking around, and one of the males is a foot shorter, slower, and weaker than all the others, the female primates are more likely to chose the other males for sex, which would make it harder for his genetic material to survive.

Undesirable traits (not to as significant an extent in civilized human society in 2018) negatively affect the chance of reproducing.

But it’s not just lack of game that removes your genes from the pool; lack of fitness for environment stops your line too.

Long story short: reproducing beings can and do reproduce in a way that eliminates features, and though it happens unfathomably gradually, the incomprehensible longevity of humanity and botany among other realms allows microscopic changes to be stretched and stretched into small changes.


We don’t eat shit because it smells bad, right?

Right. And eating shit makes you sick, so thank god it doesn’t smell like churros!

Or what if we find the smell unpleasant because eating shit makes you sick?

Suppose there was a male primate who found the rank heat of another specimen’s dead lunch to be the choicest spice, and couldn’t keep his hands off. Do you think he dodges E. coli long enough to have children?

If there was a trait available in the human genome that allowed for the birth of folks who crumbled at the aroma of a Filet of Squish, do you think it would ever survive a generation?

Now, if 10,000 years ago half of all homo sapiens were genetically pre-disposed to swoon at the scent of stool, do you think that particular characteristic would have made it to the 21st century? Even with all the pestilences we’ve faced and the level of disease in our discharge? No way.

Nobody is making it to adolescence with a diet that includes scat, let alone finding a mate. But how, Steve, does this prove evolution?

Obviously it doesn’t. But it is an imaginary illustration of how a trait could be removed from a species. There may never have been a case of people who loved to eat poo, and I don’t even know if olfactory preferences are hereditary, but the simple principle — unaffected by the question in the prior clause of this sentence — is that if there are traits that cause the specimen carrying them to be more likely to die of illness or unfitness, the traits are less likely to be passed on. Replace love of log with fragile femurs and repeat the train of thought above.

It’s a cruel world, and disadvantageous characteristics or predispositions can make specimens unfit. And if you ain’t fit…

Humanity is, in some ways, beyond this due to our intelligence — the intelligence we posess because due to physical inferiority to predators, only the smartest survived.

To wrap up this odd section, if certain specimens are undesirable, they are less likely to pass on their genetic material, as are those whose genetic material leads to unsuitability for their environment. It doesn’t have to be eating poo; it could also be not having the hand strength to open the shell of your primary food source.

If you can’t survive or you can’t breed, your genes will have a hard time moving forward, and the future of the human race will look less like you. It will evolve away from you, if you’ll excuse the cloudy over-simplicity.


According to Pew’s study, only 32% of the American public believed in evolution by natural process (like natural selection). Thankfully a further 22% aren’t completely blind, but they do see a divine hand in evolution. 31% of respondents believed that evolution doesn’t happen, or more specifically, “Humans and other living things have existed in their present form since the beginning of time.”

Almost a third of Americans (as of 9 years ago) believed that if no woman on Earth ever mated with a man under seven feet tall again, the normal range of human height would continue unchanged.

So if you believe the statement, “Evolution is just a theory,” exposes a lack of verification, or if you believe we should, “teach the controversy…”

why don’t you go eat some shit?


The Night before Game 7

My maternal grandfather William was a brave soldier and a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Officer. He went to Cathedral High School, which stands to this day, but has a new next door neighbor: Dodger Stadium.

My paternal grandfather Edward was also a brave solider who stormed the beach at Normandy on D-Day. He was from Massachusetts, and lived for the Boston Red Sox. He was born in the spring of 1918, the last year his Sox won the World Series (he was too young to remember at age 0), and he passed away in 2000, having lived over 80 years without really seeing his Sox win it all. They did Papa the favor in 2004, less than five years later.

I loved and respected both of my grandfathers, and as I grow up and learn more and more about them from candid conversations, I love and respect them even more. However, I do not want to carry on the legacy of my father’s father, at least not by taking a grenade to the ass for the people or never celebrating my team winning the World Series.

Sometime in the late 80s: Something happened and my parents were happy. They came to pick us up at the home of Grandpa (William, LA guy) and Grandma (Barbara, LA gal). I was happy too, but not really sure what was going on.

Also in the late 80s: I got an autograph from Mike Marshall, framed with his picture and a message. I kept it around for a long time, despite not really remembering the guy.

Late 80s: I went to my first games at the stadium. I started playing T-ball, or at least playing catch in the back yard.

1990ish: I was collecting baseball cards, and I started finding the periodic Ted Williams. Not knowing they were valueless, I saved them for my grandfather Ed, because Ted was his guy. This may have been the first selfless or considerate habit I developed. When Ted Williams came up, I tucked him away for the next time I saw Papa.

Early 90s: I was definitely playing T-ball, and probably already afraid of the ball, an affliction that ended my career prematurely.

Early 90s: I started remembering the lineup and the names and positions of players; I never really cared much about jersey numbers.

Early 90s: The event about which I spoke in my co-best man speech at my brother’s wedding took place. We watched a game from the stands, and I bugged my family relentlessly by talking, prodding, and whining, I’m sure. Dad took the boys to the bathroom, came back down to Mom and said, “We have to go. Jim hit Steve.” The guy behind our seats asked, “Which one is Steve?” My dad said, “The little one.” The man said, “Good.”

Early 90s: I started planning for Halloween a month or so in advance. My number one idea was “Mikey P.” That’s Mike Piazza.

1995: I was obsessed with Hideo Nomo and his weird name, interesting look, and wild delivery. By this time I was a fanatic about a Dodger winning Rookie of the Year every year for the rest of time.

Sometime in the 1990s: Joel, Jim, and I finish throwing the ball around and come in to watch the game. Some sort of altercation occurs, and my mom threatens to turn off the game. Somehow holding the power, I stubbornly refuse to budge, and sacrifice the afternoon’s entertainment for my pride. We watch SportsCenter later and find out that immediately after the game was shut off, the Dodgers turned a rare triple play.

September, 1996: We’re going to the playoffs, but shit, I don’t want to play the Braves. All the Dodgers have to do is take one of three from the Padres, and the Dads will have to lay on the tracks as the flaming hot Atlanta club comes rolling through. Needless to say, Trevor Hoffman got the save in all three, and the Braves ran over Dodgers in a sweep. Still no playoff wins since 1988.

July 23, 1998: The Dodgers score 6 in the top of the first. My mom asks me and Sean if we want to go to Chilli’s. I think it was just the three of us. Maybe Jim was there too. My dad and Erin were camping on Catalina. Chilli’s sounded so good, and the Dodgers were stomping their opponent, so I said, “What the hell, there’s no school tomorrow,” so we turned off the game and went for beans and stuff. The Houston Astros sealed their legacy in my mind forever by scoring a run in the third, 5 in the eighth, and two in the tenth to win 8-6, after the Dodgers led 6-0 through one. I have never forgotten that, and it has always been one of my go-to examples of Dodger futility.

Back-to-back-to-back-to-back solo home runs to tie a game in the 9th, another home run to win in the 10th. I immediately called all my best Dodger fan friends and we screamed to each other over the phone. I was watching at the bar at Linbrook Lanes in Anaheim.
I was present for the first playoff win in nearly 25 years, watching the late Jose Lima shut down one of the best lineups in ages for an almost perfect game.
I was present for Alex Cora’s 18-pitch at bat that ended with a home run.
I was present for a Russel Martin walk-off 10th-inning grand slam.
I was there with Joel (huge Braves fan) when Mark Teixeira broke up Hiroki Kuroda’s perfect game in the 8th (he shut down the next six Braves in order).

I was there when Juan Uribe brought us back to life against the Braves just a few years ago.

I was there for Todd Helton’s final at bat. He was not a Dodger, but it was a moment.

I have gone to games solo, eating peanuts and keeping score.

I have had a beer on opening day at 5:00 a.m. before work because I lived in Japan.

I have a Delino DeShields jersey t-shirt.

I took my girlfriend to her first game (on her first in-season visit to the US) this year, and we watched Kyle Farmer slap a walk-off hit against the hated Giants in his first career plate appearance.

I want to say I have watched the team in person at the ravine 100 times, but I’m sure it’s closer to 50. I’ve definitely eaten 100 Dodger Dogs.

I fucking bleed Dodger Blue and every time someone says, “Yay, sports! Woo,” in an attempt to make me feel bad about it or at the very least express their own opinion while neglecting an inadvertent attack at my identity as just collateral damage, I think to myself, “I am a Dodger fan.”

I don’t just like the Dodgers. I don’t just love the Dodgers.

There have been times when I really tried to believe in a God, but there was never a time when I tried to change my baseball allegiance. I have never thought about it for even a moment.

My beef-solid view of the meaning of life is far more fluid than my baseball devotion.
There was one time I rooted for a player to hit a home run against the Dodgers, but it was because I was at the stadium with a cute girl, and I didn’t want the night to end.

I have never known life without the Dodgers. My family loves the Dodgers. I grew up in a Dodger house. The pace of baseball is not relevant. The idea of athletics as a recreation of strictly physical glory that takes the place of raping and pillaging an enemy, a benevolent yet brute representation of all that is primal and nonintellectual about mankind is not relevant.

Every time someone smart brings me down for watching baseball, I imagine them appraising a Renoir and me walking up behind them and screaming, “Look at all the pretty colors! Oooooooo. How profound! Look at you looking at it! Oooooooooh. The paint is so dry!”

I didn’t watch a Dodger game and think, “Oh this is cool! Who are these guys? I like that shade of blue. That was fun!”

I slowly gained cognitive awareness and agency in a Blue house amid a Blue world. I came into being around my fandom, not the other way around.

I am as much a Dodger fan as I am a man.

I know they’re going to lose tomorrow, but for the first time since I became aware, the Dodgers are taking the field with the intent of bringing home the trophy.

Tomorrow will be one of the most memorable days of my life, no matter what happens. I have been waiting thirty years for this.

I’m not going to work. Da ba dee, da ba die.

8,025,600 Minutes

I manage no longer the energy or spirit required for eloquence, so here I will beat around no bush and plant no literary seeds to be sown down the road.

I predict that in the not-too-distant future, buying a home will be something most Americans don’t even have on their radar. American investors will stockpile real estate for the sake of selling to corporations and foreign investors. Those corporations and foreign investors will, along with some of the American investors, stockpile it for the sake of stockpiling a bunch of American real estate. Regular people will almost exclusively rent.

I will at that time argue that rental contracts for all (or certain) houses or condominiums (home types typically designated for individual-unit ownership) be legally required to include a buyout plan. Basically, any renter of a house (not apartments, for example) would be on a rent-to-own contract. It would be illegal to offer a single-family home to someone as a pure rental.

Think about the pros and cons for yourself. One variation of this could be a limit of one rental property (of the single-family variety as per above) per person (including corporate people).

This is a long way away, and probably crazy now, but talk to me in 2032.

Lord of Weddings

The height of my magnificence was an autumn Saturday in 2011. To date (2014), I’ve only been to one Japanese wedding. Ryo Tamayama is my oldest friend in Tokyo. I first met him in 2005, when he and a friend came to visit Yuki, their schoolmate. Yuki and I had been close friends since his family moved to Irvine from Minami Gyotoku in Chiba. He and Ryo were school buddies back then.

Ryo’s summer visit coincided with my second first semester of Japanese. In the fall of 2004, I took JAPN 180, Elementary Japanese. This was the first class in the program at Orange Coast College. We learned the basics of pronunciation, vocabulary, simple sentence structure, as well as the Hiragana and Katakana writing systems. It was a five unit course, and I got a D.

The problem wasn’t with my knowledge, because by the end of the term, classmates were sneaking peeks at my test papers. The bookstore ran out of the workbook at the beginning of the term, and I missed some assignments. I got way behind on the writing systems, and that basically sunk me in terms of points.

I caught up, but I couldn’t make up the assignments I missed, and I couldn’t do anything about failing the first test or two. I ended up with very high marks on the final exam, and I pleaded with the teacher to understand my situation. Nope.

I went on to JAPN 185 anyway, even though I fell short of the C requisite for advancement. I lied to the teacher and said that I passed the prior term. It was a cocky move, but not much of a risk. I passed 185 with a B. Suck it, OCC!

In a meeting with one of the school’s counselors, when talking about my grades and my prospects for transferring to a university, she noticed my eccentric history with the language program. She pointed to it as a scar on my transcript. I asked what I should do. I thought that passing the higher class with a B would somehow overrule the D. She disagreed, and suggested I retake the class.

I walked back into Ito-sensei’s 180 class with Kagawa-sensei’s 185 skin on my wall. She recognized me and called me up to her desk. I told her that I had gotten a D and was trying to correct my grade. She was fine with it, until I started acing quizzes and turning in flawless assignments. I told her what was up, and she wasn’t too happy. I made it clear that I was doing it at the insistence of my counselor. I got an A. Retaking that five unit course added fifteen grade points to my GPA numerator over zero new units to the denominator. That’s two touchdowns.

I was excited when Ryo showed up. He didn’t speak much English, but I was equipped with my preschool level Japanese, so we were good. We also had Yuki to keep things going smoothly. Ryo’s trip was about a week long, and we hung out almost every day. Yuki and I introduced him and his friend to the American house party. It was a blast, and we became good buddies.

I booked a trip for January of 2006, four or five months later. When I arrived at Narita Airport for the first time, Ryo and his girlfriend were waiting for me. After almost an hour of standing around looking for them, I got on a bus to Shinjuku Station, and a nice young lady helped me get into a taxi for my hotel. Ryo had been at the wrong terminal, probably at my fault. I hadn’t even known there were two.

He found me at my hotel, and he, his girlfriend, and I went out to my first Japanese meal. The place was Mysterious, a psychedelic izakaya on Yasukuni Dori in Kabukicho. We ate chicken, sushi, and fried potatoes, among other things. I drank a Corona.

He went all over Tokyo with me in my week and a half in country. He was a college student then, so he was able to spend a good amount of his time out and about. He introduced me to a lot of his friends at a drinking party near his university, way out west in Hachioji. I spent the night at his apartment and returned to central Tokyo the next day.

One of the last nights I was there, Ryo and I went out to dinner with Yumiko, his ex-girlfriend. I had a magical vacation in Japan, and I knew that I wanted to try living there. I was hooked. I returned to America and applied to Temple University, Japan Campus. Temple in Philadelphia established their Tokyo campus in 1982. In 2005, it was fully recognized by the Japanese government as an official Japan campus of a foreign university. There is a beer vending machine just outside the administrative office. I was accepted.

In the one-year period between my vacation and enrollment, Ryo Tamayama was in Vancouver, British Columbia. He went to study English, and returned home fluent in Korean. He learned English too, though. We became even closer friends in 2007 and 2008 while I was in Tokyo, and have a lot of great memories together.

When I arrived in 2009 on the JET Programme assignment, we had many more opportunities to hang out. He visited me in Ogatsu, Ishinomaki in my first few months there. We went all around eastern Miyagi Prefecture, and he and our friends Hiro and Mari spent the night with me at my house, which was swept into the sea a little over a year later. Ryo and the girls almost got me my first ticket in the country when we pulled through a tollbooth, and the operator noticed that the two in the back seat weren’t wearing seatbelts. Ryo told the officer that I wasn’t at fault, and we were let go with a warning. I just assumed that everyone wore seatbelts. I got that elusive first ticket a few weeks later for “dangerous” “speeding” on a country road.

On October 1st, 2011, Ryo married Yumiko, that once-ex-girlfriend who (according to Ryo) saw how international he was becoming, and found it really attractive. You’re welcome. I was invited to the ceremony. Being Ryo’s close friend, I set up the UCLA game to record for later viewing, and made my way from Ishinomaki to Tokyo.

I won the wedding.

I took the train down on Friday night. I met a friend in Omotesando, a very fashionable neighborhood in the center of Tokyo, and we had some drinks. I woke up in time for the wedding, but my taxi driver couldn’t find the chapel. I barely made it on time, and sat in the back with the high school friends of the bride and groom (same high school). One of my old friends was in the group, and so was a white girl. She went to their high school, and had grown up in Japan. I later asked if she could speak English, and her friends said, “She can when she’s drunk!” We were all drunk, and she spoke decently, but was legitimately not fluent. I think her name was Miriam.

The wedding was very nice. It was Western style. We took pictures at the chapel, then moved to the reception room where there was assigned seating. I was with my good friend Mari, and some of Ryo’s cousins. It was a fun reception with singing and dancing. Early in the reception, Ryo and Yumiko left so they could change into their ball attire. When they came back, the energetic Master of Ceremonies announced that there would be some audience participation.

The bride and groom stood in the center of the ballroom, and my table watched enthusiastically. The emcee was talking, and I wasn’t paying strict enough attention to pick up what he said, until I felt his eyes on me and heard, “Mr. Steve!”

Everyone in the room, the families, the co-workers, the classmates, the bosses, and the friends looked over at me, the one foreigner at the reception.  I was startled, and terrified that I would misunderstand the question or not know how to respond.

“What’s different from before about the bride and the groom?” he asked. I kept the seating chart and program from the ceremony, so I know that there were a hundred sixty eyes on me, if you don’t include the host and staff.

“Uh. Yumi’s… hat changed.”

“Is he correct?” the emcee shouted into the microphone.

There was an overwhelmingly positive response, so the guy threw me a bag of kaki-pi, my favorite snack. I obediently showed it off to the rest of the reception, and got a hearty laugh. I really wanted to summon the host back over to ask him for some milk, but the show had moved on.

I met Ryo’s parents for the first time on the way out. Mari and I headed to the place where we’d have the “afterparty”. The bar was extremely classy, and offered a really special view of some of the city. This part of a Japanese wedding is convenient for keeping numbers down at the formal ceremonies. Friends of the bride and groom who are of similar age are invited to a bash in the evening. The honored couple are fashionable, popular, and genuinely nice people, so the masses were out for the event.

I had my hands full remembering the names of all my new friends, and was excited to see some people with whom I hadn’t gotten together in years. I couldn’t believe the fact that I was saying, “It’s been more than five years!” to people who lived in Tokyo. I kept busy by posing for pictures and winking at girls.

Attention was called to center stage for some question and answer with the newlyweds. After thoroughly humiliating the couple, the friend who was in charge of the party games somehow split the hundred or so people into about ten teams very quickly. The only person on my team that I knew was me, and I don’t even know him that well.

I was with some of Ryo’s elementary school buddies, and they were pretty excited. We talked for a bit about how we all knew him, and then we posed for some pictures. The host turned on a projector to use for the trivia contest, but the first order of business was to show some embarrassing pictures of Ryo. It was then explained that the team with the most correct answers would get to choose prizes from a hat. There were some real good prizes, so my team decided to play hard.

In a room full of friends who had known Ryo and Yumiko for any number of years, in a trivia contest conducted in their native and my second language, I led my team to a victory. There were ten questions. We got eight correct, and on a couple occasions, I intervened in the discussion, saying something like, “No. Trust me. It’s B.” When the results were announced, I popped out of my seat, pointed to the ceiling, gave and received some pats on the back, and shook hands with my teammates as we were being called to the front.

We were the champs of a gaggle of fashionable, successful, young Tokyoites, and out came the bag from which we’d draw prize tickets. When the host called for the first team member, I was tossed onto the block. In a nod to the overall attention I had been receiving that night, the man with the microphone went off-script and asked for me to do a small self introduction for the people.

I smiled and said, “I humbly refer to myself as Steve.”

“Ikemen!” came from a number of regions of the crowd.

After telling them a short tale of my friendship with Ryo, I put my hand in the bag. I settled on one ticket, and drew it out. Without looking, I handed it to the fellow with the mic. He looked at the prize, lowered the ticket, and raised the microphone. In a gradually escalating Michael Buffer-like proclamation, he roared, “Roooooooooooooooombaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!” I knew what a Roomba was, but it didn’t occur to me that that’s what he was saying, so when it was explained to me, “robot vacuum cleaner,” I rejoiced.

The thing was shipped to me a couple weeks after the wedding, and retailed for more than I spent on the trip. I was pretty pumped up. I immediately signaled the barman for another cold one, as I was firing on all cylinders and didn’t want to overheat.

Eventually the party started to die down. I had been quietly invited to a third party, though, so I was staying close to Ryo. This last party was strictly for hometown kids, the friends from all the way back. Being Acting Lord of Weddings, I was invited. A close friend of mine was not invited, so parting was awkward. She was sort of distraught, because she wanted to be with her friends. I had to comfort her by saying, “I think he just feels guilty that I came all the way from Miyagi, so he is letting me stay the whole night.”

The setting was a smart restaurant near Shibuya, I think. The first floor consisted of a few tables and the kitchen. The second floor had one large table and a ladder. Our table was in an enclosure up in the corner. It was technically the third floor, but we had to crawl through a hole at the top of the ladder, and the ceiling was four or five feet off the floor. It was dark. I had recently become obsessed with accessibility. I had gone through a phase in which I avoided basements. I didn’t like elevators, and I avoided standing under suspended things. Magnitude nine earthquakes will do that to a fella.

Luckily, I was drunk as hell and riding the natural high that comes with winning Best Supporting Actor of somebody else’s big day. This little roost in the rafters was where I tried to get the white girl to speak English. In a crafty move, we were seated together in the corner, next to Ryo and Yumiko, so it was only natural to bring it up. Every once in a while, I’d go down the ladder to use the restroom, walking by the other parties, prompting a “Check it out. Who’s this guy?” or two.

After we stumbled out of the chic little place, I began thinking of how I was going to get back to my hotel. I was ready for a bowing contest and some big hugs when Ryo said the magic word.


I asked if he was serious, and he told me that we were all going to the center of Shibuya to get loud. We slid over by taxi and walked into one of the big chains. There was a bit of a wait, so we sat in the lobby. Yumiko was starting to fade, and she said she wasn’t feeling well. We got some water, but it didn’t help. She walked outside and knelt down by the curb. We stood around for support, and she heaved.

Maroon. On the dress.

Luckily, she had changed after the nuptials, so it wasn’t her wedding gown, and again before the afterparty, so it wasn’t even her reception dress. It was still a classy, white frock, though. I stood by in my cheap suit and offered up my twenty dollar coat, but Ryo had beaten me to it. Thousands of people, including several groups of foreigners walked past us on that sidewalk. It was very clear that we were a wedding party, and I was conversing normally with the other members. I got a hundred more of those looks. Mystique was my middle name that night.

We concluded that bridebarf is when civilized folk conclude a wedding night. We all had hugs and took pictures, then the party dissolved. Back to anonymity for me. I walked through the intersection in front of Shibuya Station, dodging revelers in the scramble crosswalk as they looked at me and said, “Check out the sad, white drunk.”

The sun was shining on the sea in the middle of the night, and I could have turned up the street instead of crossing. Life was behind me, and stupidly, I left it there. I only had about ten months left in Japan, but that night I was the walrus. The opportunities seemed limitless, like I’d relive it all the next weekend. I could hear the music and the laughter, but I opted for the pillow. The jubilance trailed off, or maybe Steve did.

I was defeated by my blood alcohol level: utterly lost. Knowing I was close, I stubbornly walked up and down the block in search of a memory. There weren’t any, and my phone was dead. I gave in and hailed a cab. Driving on the left side, he came up on my right. I sat in the back, and gave the driver the name of the hotel. He made the short left turn onto the main street, drove half a block, and stopped. “Here you are. Seven hundred ten yen, please.” Seventy cents a second.

I awoke having reverted to my oyster form. Washington was beating Utah. If I wanted to watch UCLA lose to Stanford and still have time to go read in the café at AEON, I needed to get on a train. The only tangible evidence of my fifteen hours of fame is a vacuum sitting in its box two feet to my left. I’ll use it when I have a bigger place.

Jesus, Take the Chalk

American parents, 2035

Mike: You guys sending Breighlynne to school this year?

Phil: Nah, with the asthma, we had to pick treatment or school. Maybe if we hadn’t already sold the condo for the childbirth.

Mike: Yeah. We can afford one, so Lisa will go this year and Mike Jr. next year. We’ll make them do homework together or something.

News, Rube

From this point forward, I will be calling out anyone who spreads false stories. If you are the type to share a link from some unknown Macedonian-run website claiming to have big news concerning US politics, I’ve got my eye on you.

If I see you share a link that says something along the lines of, “CONFIRMED! Bill Paid $1,000,000 to Get Hillary off Terrorist Watch List,” or, “Trump to Announce Son for Cabinet Position,” your transgression may be met with the following:

Nice work, Dantana.

If you get a, “Nice work, Dantana,” you should take that as a criticism of your investigative skills. It should be interpreted as, “Maybe do ten seconds of research next time, sucker.”

If you don’t get the joke, watch The Newsroom.

A Glimmer

2016 has solidified its legacy as the worst year in recent memory. After Trump, “Brexit”, and Arnold Palmer, the fine people of Planet Earth are struggling to find a glint or glimmer of hope, happiness, justice, or just plain old good.

I thought I’d share one.

When I woke up in Ishinomaki City on March 11th, 2011, Miyagi Prefecture was unknown worldwide, other than the fact that its name rang a bell because of The Karate Kid. Later that day in Miyagi alone, anywhere from 10,553 to 11,788 people lost their lives, 82,999 homes were completely destroyed, and 325,884 civilians sought refuge at evacuation shelters[1].

This major event forever connected me to the city of Ishinomaki, the prefecture of Miyagi, and the country of Japan. It changed the course of, among many million others, my life. I now work for the government of Miyagi. One of my duties is interpretation when non-Japanese speakers come in as guests of the prefecture.

On June 13th of this year, a group of such guests, about twenty university students from California, came to my building as a part of a study tour. A representative from the government delivered a presentation in Japanese, and I interpreted.

In that presentation, I relayed to our English-speaking guests that at at the end of 2015, 39,896 Miyagi residents were still living in temporary housing, and nearly 5,000 were temporarily living outside the prefecture.

Prefabricated temporary housing like this once housed more than 50,000 people in Miyagi.

I am interpreting the presentation again on Friday, and I will be telling this group about how 15,500 Miyagians live in temporary prefabricated housing, and 3,700 are living temporarily outside the prefecture.

After years of living in cold, cramped, crappy metal boxes, thousands of people here moved into Disaster Public Housing units, which can be permanent apartment complexes, duplexes, and stand-alone homes this year.

2016 was a good year for some people.

Disaster Public Housing will now house many of the victims of the 2011 disaster.

Who Said It? Part V

2005 (or 2017, whatever). Who said it?

“It’s a tragedy for me that he’s President of my country. You know, my book is called A Man Without a Country. Well I’ve still got a passport, but if I showed this now in Portugal or Spain or Italy or Germany or France or Denmark or Japan or even communist China, what it would say about me is that I am not only from the richest country in the world, but the dumbest country in the world. Is our President a tragic figure? Perhaps, but he doesn’t know diddly squat about economics or history or science… even how to speak well.”