For the Record

I love Japan. And I love living in Japan, despite what my previous grumblings about old people in sun hats and censorship on pubic hair might have misled. (Really, I was only pissed that the dry cleaner was closed when I went to pick up my suit.) But even given my affinity for this country, teaching is an entirely different matter, and a career change that I anticipated would be immensely rewarding has been largely discouraging. Imagine, if you will, trying to explain to a confused and increasingly frightened Japanese child the verb ‘do’, one of the most fundamental words in the English language, without just flailing your goddamn arms about. So, ‘What did you do on Saturday?’ becomes, 'What (questioning shrug) did you (point point point) do (goddamn flailing) on Saturday (point to calendar)? Clearly, teaching is meant for someone with much more patience, tenderness and better control of their profanity, and it came to me one recent morning as I sat Indian style with a duck puppet on my left hand, calmly watching my student lick the bottom of his own foot: I don’t want to do this anymore. Around about the same time Sherry and I received matching folded letters in matching green envelopes from the corporate office. Mine was addressed to Brandon Sensei, Sherry’s to Sherry Sensei, and they were offers to renew our contracts for another year. Sherry and I conferred in a smoke-filled restaurant over a dinner of crab pizza and pork kimchee. I took a sip of my whiskey and she says ‘I want to quit’, and I say ‘I need to go to the bathroom but I don’t know where my shoes are’, and with that it was settled. The Jansas are coming home. We will return after the first of the year, which means I have approximately 5 months to master the art of ninja, embark on a mystical journey through the Shinto spirit realm and get a yakuza style back tattoo (Mt. Fuji set against the Cadillac insignia. Or vice versa). I will miss Japan tremendously, and reminiscences of our year here will remain a constant source of comfort throughout my life. But Sherry and I are ready for the next adventure. We miss family. We miss friends. And we have a small, white, mohawked pup at home whose absence has left a smoldering spot in our hearts, and who I'm anxious as all hell to get back to so I can have him plated with gold, chained, and hung around my neck in permanent adornment as if I were some bejeweled rapper from my iTunes playlist. Plus, I have a writing career to begin.

Crow Street

“Japan has a big problem with crows,” explains my student, Sonoko. She is eleven years old with intimidating intelligence. She has soft, wide features and a toothy grin. Her hair is simple and unassuming – not too long, not too short, with bangs brushing her eyebrows. She’s wearing a simple navy cardigan with some form of emblem on it and a white ruffled blouse. She watches television only during lunch and studies the rest of the day. Her father designs submarines or something. “Crows?” I ask. “Mmm, yes.” She confirms with a nod. “Mm, I think that they are a big problem in Japan.” Japanese crows are menacing. They’re the size of small dogs, have beaks like pruning sheers and are absolutely everywhere. In fact, my wife seems to have recently developed an unhealthy, paralyzing phobia of crows – and most birds, come to think of it - solely due to the wicked stare and constant looming of the Japanese crows. She's frequently scurrying through the streets like a frightened field mouse and darting from one covered awning to another, eyes focused on the heavens and ears open to the foreboding caw caws from above. Shameful. Sonoko continues. “The crows attack people. You must really be careful of the crows.” “Attack people?” “Yes. Mmm, they kill people. Their beaks stab you here,” she taps the base of her skull. “ Or here,” with her forefinger she makes a hollow thud against her sternum. “Japanese crows murder people?!” I ask. “Mmm.” “How often?” Sonoko ponders. “Fairly often, I think. I think that you should be careful of the crows. I think that they will kill you.” “Kill me!?” “Mmm. And you should be careful at night walking down dark narrow streets.” Dark narrow streets! What is this little girl talking about? Japan is two-thirds dark narrow streets! “Dark narrow streets?!” I demand. At this point, my contribution to this conversation is little beyond simply repeating Sonoko’s words back to her incredulously. “Yes. The crows sleep in dark narrow streets, and if you wake them, they may be frightened.” She makes a sudden swirling motion with her arms, and I flinch instinctively. “I think that they will fly around and that they will kill you.” “What?!” “Yes. It is a crow street.” Further reading. The below article was released in the New York Times today. Forget the melting ice caps and Chinese gyoza. Japanese crows will surely usher in the final chapters of the human race. Repent, repent, people, before it's too late. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/07/world/asia/07crows.html

Tangerine

Alcoholic drinks on trans-Pacific flights are free, and at the moment I’m two miniature Chardonnay bottles and one Dramamine tab goofy, while my divine young wife slumbers next to me. 
 Sherry is balled up, collapsing on herself like a dying star, her legs pulled onto the seat and tight against her chest. Her perfectly painted toes tremble in the twitching throes of REM. On the drop-down screen in front of me plays that totally lame football movie, “The Gameplan”, starring The Rock (Dwayne Johnson for those of you who knew him in high school). The movie is fucking awful. That’s the only way to put it. It’s the worst movie ever made. I hate The Rock after watching this horrendous piece of shit. I want to punch The Rock in the throat. However, United Airlines – as I’m sure you’ll find on most international flights – accommodates multiple native languages when it comes to the viewing of their movies. So, suffice it to say that in Japanese, “The Gameplan” is a tad bit charming. Shrug. But I have a problem. Against my better judgment, perhaps, I’ve downed my miniature Chardonnays rather quickly, and now I have to pee. Savagely. Brutally. Painfully. I have to pee. It's the kind of pee, I can tell, that would hit the water with the force of a fire hydrant. It's the kind of pee that would remove toilet bowl grime if aimed accurately enough. Impressive as hell, yeah? But I don't get up. Despite the tension in my lower back and the shivers in the general vicinity of my wiener, I stay seated. Instead, I write. I write, because ten hours ago I said goodbye to my family and left the only world I've known for the past 26 years, and I want to document what might possibly be going on in my mind at this moment. In six years' time, thirty-two years' time, whatever, this moment's clarity will wane and will eventually be rendered a distant memory. This moment will be no different from the feeling a particular movie, can't remember which one, might have once, maybe, given me. Who did I see it with? Was it at the theater or was it a rental? Can't remember. Emotionally, I won't be able to tell the difference between this moment and a profound dream I had in middle school. (Slightly less alarming than that dream where tarantulas rain from the trees above, but nonetheless as abstract and inaccessible.) Now, though, it's fresh. It's sticky and tangible. Sweet and juicy. This moment is a tangerine. 
 Sherry and I are on our way to Japan to spread the gospel of English to small, impressionable Japanese children. All our belongings, save for four suitcases of varying sizes filled with clothing for all seasons, are in a climate-controlled storage unit in Austin. The aimless collections of shit we've acquired and owned (or have acquired and owned us) since our lives merged several years ago sit idly in the deafening blackness of a consistently 70 degree, 7x20 space. Our brilliant red IKEA chair. Our pastel blue and green dinner plates. My 5-day ab workout video. It's all there. It all awaits us, and upon our return, I'll be on day three. This morning I said goodbye to my parents. Tearfully and with as few words as possible, I told them I loved them and would miss them achingly, would email incessantly and would call frequently using Skype and a webcam. I hugged my sister, kissed her on the cheek. I hugged my brother-in-law for the first time, he smelled very nice. Then Sherry and I made our way through security, bought a breakfast taco and marinated on our immediate futures. I'm not quite sure what emotions I expected, but it certainly wasn't this. This moment is practically an absence of emotion. Or perhaps a wealth of emotion, I can't quite tell the difference. What are we doing, whose goddamn idea was this? Is it too late to reclaim my promising career in advertising? I’m thrilled. I'm liberated. I can’t wait. How has it taken this long for us to do such a thing? Are we there yet? 
 It seems that each emotion is simultaneously amplified and nullified by another. The clearly remaining fact, though, is that this is a journey we've always wanted to take, always needed to take. And so rarely are we afforded the luxury of identifying such an extraordinarily momentous point in our lives - one that at that very instant we can recognize as a defining juncture in our personal evolution, can stand at the edge and look over at the enormity of our decision and say, "look, there's my house!" - that I feel it a disservice to the grand scheme of the Universe were I not to at least attempt to document my feelings on the matter. But alas, my emotions are basic and robotic, and laughable is my understanding of the Universe's divine plan. What words could my mortal fingers type that could possibly do this sweet, juicy, oozing moment justice? Plus, I have to pee. Savagely. Brutally. Painfully. I have to pee.