RLS

A few diligent readers still find ways to send comments to my blog.

1) Comment:
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(From a reader with a URL for “Harvey ejaculation command”)
You try to grab my feed and do something with a forthcoming post and I’ll put my size 13 virtual boot so far up your virtual ass, your tongue will have an LL Bean impression on it.

2) Comment
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(From a reader with a URL for “forever body transformation)
Thanks for the compliment, dawg, but my body is beyond transformation!

3) Comment:
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(from a reader living in outer space selling his nexium delayed-release capsules for heartburn and whatever else ails you.)
I’ve done quite a few things in my life, but this is the first time I’ve ever been substantively dentated.

 4) Comment:
So will be the green tea i buy in cans exactly the same as the regular tea you’d buy to put within your morning cup? I’ve been told is just normal green tea produced to be cooler, but does it have any affect as far as not speeding up your metabolism as quick as normal hot green tea?
(from a reader with a scam.com/ member…URL)
Personally, I’m comfortable with my laid-back metabolism, and I’m also a coffee guy!

5) Comment
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(from a reader with a URL for herpes cures)
I’d like permission to quote your “really gooda”. What a great way to put it. BTW, can your drug cure jock rash, too?

6) Comment:
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(from a reader with a URL for premature ejaculations)
I’d love to take your compliment at face value, but I don’t have any problems with, uh, oops!

7) Comment:
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(from a reader with a URL for diet drops)
Are your diet drops guaranteed to make me lose weight? I’ll bet they are.

8) Comments
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(from a reader with a URL for recover HYIP investments)
Thanks for the tremendous compliments on my fantastic blog. Thing is, even I don’t think it’s fantastic and I’m writing the damn stuff. One question, in your second sentence you use an ambiguous pronoun “this”. I’d sure like to know what I grasp so much about…

Why do all these readers assume that I am a physical, mental wreck? Actually, I’m doing pretty good for a guy my age.

Nine years ago a friend gave me a tape full of Def Jam Comedy (HBO) monologues. The first line from the opening of a Chris Tucker stand up routine on one of the shows I watched was “Pissed off, man!” After a full two hours of this uncensored, mind-boggling comedy, there were tears in my eyes and the muscles in my cheeks and stomach were sore. I had just listened to more foul language than I had heard in decades. I stopped counting that mother of all swear words, “motherfucker”, after the first five minutes.

I’ve always loved comedy. From the time my dad bought our first TV back in 1954, I was hooked on the laughter this amazing device brought into our home. The TV became my laugh generator. If I could have had my own TV in my room as a child, I might have locked the door and withdrawn from the rest of society way before it became trendy. Back in the 50s there simply wasn’t all that much laughter in the hills of southern Ohio. Life was good (in an oddly American way) for most of us, but nobody spent much time laughing. People might tell a joke or two on occasion, and we would all smile and chuckle, but there was something artificial, something forced, about this laughter, and the humor was unrelated to our daily lives. But I was hungry for laughter. I can still recall searching in vain through each new issue of Reader’s Digest for something that might make me laugh out loud.

Eventually, I realized what was missing. We were faking the language, turning it into a vernacular that only the most pious of the pious would ever use, for fear of hurting someone’s feelings. After my introduction to DCJ, I am now free to laugh at the things I find to be funny. Now anyone can say or write anything to anybody anywhere, and nobody turns blue in the face any more. The problem with the humor of the 50s and 60s was its prudeness and excessive moralism. And I still can’t shake it off. More often than I care to count, I probably should have had my mouth washed out with soap as a child, but I found cussing (or swearing) to be extremely expressive form of communication when I couldn’t find the word I was looking for. It was also the way a lot of real people talked. In spite of my Quaker upbringing, I also enjoyed a certain sense of rebellion through the use of foul language. But even in the 21^st century, even as a rebel in my own right, I still recognize certain linguistic limitations with regard to the TPO.

For example, there are a few words that I would still refrain from using in front of my mother if she were alive today. I’m still not totally comfortable hearing young women with no tattoos or pierced oddities say “fuck” or “shit”. But I realize that these issues are my problems. I’m fully aware that things are different today… Or so I thought.

Two days ago, major news networks started dealing with a video of young American marines shown “urinating” on corpses of some of the Taliban rebels they had just killed. But let’s face it America (with your linguistically pristine media), these boys were not “urinating”. That’s something that patients with bladder problems do in a hospital. They were “pissing” on dead boys who had died for what to them had been an entirely just cause. In death, these boys were being soaked in the piss of other boys, their killers, who had killed for an entirely just cause of their own. America was quick to claim that this abominable act had been based upon some unfathomable reasons, and that it should not affect any relationships that may exist between the US and the Taliban. Others were claiming that the videos had been edited or forged, since American boys don’t do this kind of thing. Still others claimed that “US Probes Claim Marines Urinated On Taliban”. Is this meant to imply that the US actually questions whether our Semper Fi-nest really piddled on the Taliban corpses, or to simply pretend that it cares enough to “probe” for the truth and then deal with it once it becomes apparent?

Open your eyes America. Our grunts are fighting for a country that won’t even let a citizen call a spade a spade. In the land of the free and the home of the brave, we continue to pretend that certain words do not exist. Everyone knows that every second or third word of these grunts of ours is probably “fuck” (or “fucking” or “fuckin’” or “motherfucking”). That’s the way grunts talk. Yet these same grunts, with their limited vocabularies, can somehow justify pissing on the faces of other humans in the line of duty, and they can’t even say “piss” or “pee” because these are still “dirty” words and they might offend somebody’s American mother, or her fucking apple pie.

Marlon Brando had it right when, as the mad Col. Kurtz in “Apocalypse Now”, he said, “But their commanders won’t allow them to write “fuck” on their airplanes because it’s obscene!”

What is obscene is supporting an army of young soldiers who lack the freedom of speech but maintain the freedom to kill and piss, not urinate, on any damage that they may have caused in line of duty. I only hope that the mothers of these animals feel some shame in their failure to having raised their boys to be men of compassion.

On January 2, we went to my wife’s hometown in Saitama to visit the grave of her mother’s aunt, Atchi-ba-chan. I never heard anyone call her “Aunt Tokuko”. To all of us who knew her and loved her, she was always “Atchi-ba-chan”, apparently because she spent most of her time in the kitchen, the laundry, or in some other room (atchi in Japanese) and because she was an old lady (ba-chan in Japanese). On December 4^th, at the age of 70, Atchi-ba-chan passed away peacefully due to complications from pancreatic cancer. To me, she was a relatively distant relative, an in-law or sorts. Since her divorce she had been living with my wife’s family for nearly 20 years. In spite of my intense courting efforts and head-over-heels infatuation with my wife-to-be, Atchi-ba-chan’s grandniece, in 1972, from the day we first met, there was no question in my mind that I had just met an old woman who understood me more than any other female in Japan, including my future wife.

Understanding me with all of my idiosyncrasies and my beginner’s Japanese was no easy matter. My wife and I were constantly confronting the perimeters of human communication on a daily basis. My future mother-in-law probably thought that her daughter had fallen for an alien from outer space. But to Atchi-ba-chan, from the very beginning, I was simply another face at the dinner table with hungers and thirsts just like everyone else. Whenever I tried to speak, my halting Japanese would confound the entire family, except for Atchi-ba-chan. She had a knack for grasping the kernel of any conversation, and for cutting through all the fat, gristle, and bone that made normal conversation a constant challenge. Atchi-ba-chan was undoubtedly the most skilled communicator I would ever meet.

But the point of today’s entry is not Atchi-ba-chan’s story; any story that could do justice to such an angel would be far beyond my ability as a writer. Rather it is about a previous visit to her grave. About 10 years after she had passed away, I was talking with my younger daughter about this great aunt that she had never had the opportunity to meet in person. I was telling her some of the funny stories about our relationship and how Atchi-ba-chan could always understand exactly what I was trying to say, no matter how poorly I might say it. It was also a hot summer day in the middle of the O-Bon season in August when Japanese people make their obligatory visits the cemeteries to pray for their deceased family members and kin. It was really, really hot. And as we talked, Jolene kept looking outside at my green Honda CB250T. Eventually, we started talking about the coolness of the breeze when you’re riding a motorcycle even on hot summer days. And with little hesitation, we both decided to visit Atchi-ba-chan’s grave 40 kms south of our home on my Honda, in spite of my wife’s concerns and dislikes for two-wheeled vehicles.

It is necessary to point out that Atchi-ba-chan became a Christian in her latter years, and as such, her ashes were interred within a small Christian mausoleum in a cemetery just north of Fukaya. It took us about 50 minutes on the bike. It was a pleasant ride for me, with little traffic. Jolene was holding on tight, so I assumed that she was either thrilled, or scared to death. We eventually found a cemetery just north of Fukaya, and it was small enough that we could also find the mausoleum for Christians with no problem. We went in and placed some flowers in front of the mausoleum. I tried to pray, but I was never very good at it. Instead, Jolene and I laughed and talked with the spirit of Atchi-ba-chan as if she were right there beside us, sitting in the shade of a big pine tree, for close to 20 minutes. Then we got back on the bike and ran into town for some soft ice cream and a soda before we drove back to Maebashi. When we arrived, Jolene told her mother all about our experience on the bike and in the cemetery and how she had come to know her own great-great aunt as a wonderful person, even though Atchi-ba-chan had died before she was born.

About 10 years later during the New Year holidays, my wife and I were in Fukaya visiting relatives. On our way back home we decided to pay our respects to Atchi-ba-chan while we were in town. I was driving and heading out toward the cemetery when my wife told me to turn left at the next traffic light. A bit of confusion followed, but I did what my wife told me to do, as usual, and found myself at a much larger cemetery than the one Jolene and I had visited years before. Inside we also found a Christian mausoleum on the south side of the grounds near the entrance. But this mausoleum was much larger and nicer than the one we visited before. When we stopped directly in front of Atchi-ba-chan’s final resting place, there was no pine tree nor was there any shade. But there was laughter totally unfit for a cemetery and according to my wife, my face had become as red as a beet in a matter of seconds.

What else can a guy do? I squatted down in front of the mausoleum and told the spirit of Atchi-ba-chan exactly what had happened 10 years ago. And as I started to apologize, Atchi-ba-chan spoke to me as only a great communicator can. She told me that what Jolene and I had done was totally commendable and that she was proud of us. She pointed out that there is no such thing a mistaking one gravesite for another since it is the effort and intent of the visitor, not the results, which count when you visit a cemetery. So what if we may have been a few kilometers off track? Today, rather than having made any unpardonable error, I was able to confirm that Jolene and I had actually done the right thing 10 years before. And in the process we had probably generated more smiles and laughter into a relatively somber setting than there had ever been before.

RIP Atchi-ba-chan, you’re still in our hearts and we love you.

Last year was about as bad as they come here in Japan. My realization of our own transience was so profound, I found myself totally unable to think in terms of more than a few days in advance. When you see the world around you crumbling and spewing man-made poisons into the air and water, it becomes a really serious ball-buster.

Since March 11, I’ve been living and responding to things on a day-to-day basis. I can only hope that a few of these problems take a turn for the better this year. But with our leaders in Japan having no idea how to lead, and our followers totally content to believe everything they are told and blindly follow whoever is in front of them, all I can offer right now are my “Best Wishes for a Happy New Month“.

Hopefully, we can string 12 of them together this year.

Recently a friend told me I look like Dave Van Ronk. I’ve been taking it as a compliment. But when I showed my wife the picture of DVR, she laughed. I am proud to say that I still believe my friend was right!

Go ahead and laugh. But we’re talking about the “Mayor of MacDougal Street”, the “friendly uncle of Greenwich Village”, one of the last of the real troubadours. His home boys included Bob Dylan, Tom Paxton, Patrick Sky, Phil Ochs, Ramblin’ Jack Elliot, Joni Mitchell, and countless others who pursued the purity of man-made music over the engineered stuff.

All right, maybe Dave and I aren’t that much to look at, but he could make his guitar express every conceivable emotion. And he was quick to point out that even a gruff, raspy voice could do more justice to a good song than a beautiful face and voice (with a staff of talented engineers) could do with a song written on a deadline.

Yeah, I take it as a compliment. I’d rather look like DVR than Justin Bieber any time. If you have a couple of minutes to spare, take a look at:  Tom Russell; \”Van Ronk\”

I’m having trouble being serious about things anymore. A spokesdevil for TEPCO, the world’s least sensitive supplier of overpriced electric power, appeared on TV yesterday morning and said, “WE ARE RAISING OUR CHARGES FOR ELECTRIC POWER 20%. THIS NEEDS TO BE CARRIED OUT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.”

In his dark suit, white shirt and bland necktie, this guy looked Japanese, he had a Japanese name, and he spoke the language with no foreign accent of any sort, but he can’t be Japanese. Even the most devilish of them would never be this blunt on national TV. A normal, minimally corrupt, Japanese spokesdevil would say something like, “Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of the Tokyo Power Company, please allow me to express our sincere appreciation for your warm support and concerns for our organization over the years. At this time, we would like to take this opportunity to bring up our intention to eventually consider the possibility of a meager raise in the cost of electricity due, of course, to situations that are entirely out of our control and beyond anticipation, blah, blah, blah.”

After the TEPCO rep’s brief statement, a commentator implied that this raise would probably take effect in April of 2012.

On the same news program, Prime Minister Noda and his reps hemmed and hawed about an imminent raise in the sales tax rate from 5% to 10% over the course of three or four years.

Unemployment is rampant in Japan. People of all ages are being “restructured” (read: fired) from their positions in various companies, all of which promised “lifelong security” for all employees when they were hired. And many of those younger people lucky enough to find work are being hired on limited contracts as temps. This provides an outlet for firing them if the occasion ever arises.

The government is seriously considering a delay in the payment of initial retirement benefits until retirees reach the age of 68, and providing no advice with regard to how these folks are supposed to survive and support themselves in spite of having no income for the first 6 to 8 years after they retire,

Private firms, on the other hand, are hiring retiring bureaucrats at lucrative salaries even before the red ink from their personal stamps on their retirement documents dries.

There is also some serious talk of doing away with the initial “spouse deduction” on national, prefectural, and municipal income taxes.

Annual bonuses for employees in legitimate companies and public facilities are being cut drastically.

And the government is planning to build a huge “pork barrel” damn in our prefecture in order to supply Tokyo and its neighbors with water and provide flood protection for those of us living in Gunma, even though we have no floods.

Some more pork! They are also planning to expand the Bullet Train (Shinkansen) lines in Hokkaido and in the southwestern prefectures of Honshu. I guess this is so we can make speedy business trips to the outlands if ever there are any business opportunities out there. Oh, yeah, we already have 120 airports (154 if you include those for military use only) on a landmass the size of California. Oh, yeah, nearly 80% of this same land mass is covered in steep, uninhabitable mountains.

Everyone seems to want to rebuild the Tohoku Region that was destroyed and contaminated by the earthquakes, tidal waves and TEPCO’s nuclear holocaust in Fukushima so they can move back to their homes.

Right now, I’m really too busy to write in my blog these days. I’ve just opened a new business manufacturing tin cups, signboards, fingerless gloves and gunnysacks. There is no question in my mind that within the next five years, begging will be the biggest (and maybe the only) moneymaker in Japan.