Journey of a Japanoodle

Japanese culture is also very "interesting", by which I mean confusing, and in several cases, dangerous. Their culture is based on the concept of "In Group/Out Group", in which all Japanese people are one big "In" group, and you are the "Out" group. Besides instilling this sense of alienation, Japan also produces cartoons and a wide variety of consumer products which are crammed into your face 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The Japanese also like cock fighting monsters that live in your pants, taking baths with the elderly, and killing themselves in fancy ways.

Japanese food is what some people would call "exotic", but what most people call "disgusting", or perhaps, in some areas, "whack". Japanese food evolved from back in ancient days, when the main staple of the diet was rice. People got so sick and tired of eating rice, in fact, that they ate just about anything else they could find, from seaweed to other Japanese people. This led to the creation of such wonderful foods as "Natto", which I believe is a kind of bean but tastes like battery acid, and "Pocky", which is a stick with different frostings on it, the flavours of which include Sawdust and Strawberry. (There is Men's and Women's Pocky. Everyone knows there is no goddamned difference, but people still feel weird buying the "wrong" kind, anyway.)

Despite this variety of foods, however, the Japanese have succeeded in making every single thing they eat, from tea to plums, taste like smokey beef.


(to be continued)

Journey of a Japanoodle

When most Americans think of Japanese people, they think: polite, respectful, accommodating. (They could also possibly think: Chinese. If you haven't noticed, Americans are idiots, and can't tell 3/4 of the globe apart from one another). However, it is important to learn where the truth ends and where our Western stereotyping begins. Of course, it would be irresponsible to make any sweeping generalizations about such a large group of people, but ALL Japanese people have these three characteristics: they "speak" English, they dress very nicely, and they're short.

The Japanese school system is controlled by Japan's central government, which, of course, is not biased in any way (recent Japanese history textbook title: "White Demons Attempt To Take Away Our Holy Motherland With No Proper Reason Whatsoever, But Great And Powerful Father-Emperor Deflects Them With Winds From God: The Story Of WWII"). Because of this, all Japanese have been taught the same English-language course, which consists of reading The Canterbury Tales, watching several episodes of M*A*S*H, and reading the English dictionary from cover to cover. Armed with this extensive language knowledge, the children of Japan emerge from school ready to take part in international business and affairs, uttering such remarkable and memorable sentences as "You have no chance to survive make your time", and adding to their own products by inscribing English slogans, such as "Just give this a Paul. It may be the Paul of your life" on the side of a slot machine.

Secondly, all Japanese people dress extremely well. This fits in with the larger Japanese attitude of neatness and order. Everything has to be in its correct place with the Japanese, or a small section in the right lobe of their brain begins to have seizures and they exhibit erratic violent behaviour until the messiness is eradicated. The Japanese even FOLD THEIR DIRTY CLOTHES (I swear). Sloppiness is not tolerated in Japanese society, and someone with a small wrinkle in their shirt, one that maybe they thought they could hide by wearing a hooded sweatshirt over it (possibly emblazoned with a catchy English phrase like "Spread Beaver, Violence Jack-Off!"), will be promptly beaten to death with tiny cellphones with tons of crap hanging off them.

Lastly, the Japanese are all short. Really, really short. Not ones to leave being tall to the Europeans or Africans, however, the Japanese have single-handedly brought shoes with incredibly gigantic soles into style so that they can finally appear to be of actual human height, when in reality their height suggests that they may indeed be closer in relation to the race of dwarves or Hobbits. Then again, they make up for it with their crane-game technology, light-years beyond our own.


(to be continued)

Journey of a Japanoodle

Politeness Levels

Politeness levels have their root in an ancient Japanese tradition of absolute obedience and conformity, a social caste system, and complete respect for arbitrary hierarchical authority, which many American companies believe will be very helpful when applied as managerial techniques. They're right, of course, but no one is very happy about it.

Depending on who you are speaking to, your politeness level will be very different. The correct level of politeness depends on the age of the speaker, age of the person being spoken to, astrological sign, blood type, sex, whether they are Grass or Rock Pokémon type, color of pants, and so on. For a taste of politeness levels in action, see the example below.

Japanese Teacher: Good morning, Harry.
Harry: Good morning.
Japanese Classmates: *gasps of horror and shock*

The above would most likely be followed by violent retching. The bottom line is that politeness levels are completely beyond your understanding, so don't even try. Just resign yourself to talking like a little girl for the rest of your life and hope to God that no one beats you up.

Grammatical Structure

The Japanese have what could be called an "interesting" grammatical structure, but could also be called "confusing", "random", "bogus" or "evil". To truly understand this, let's examine the differences between Japanese and English grammar.

English sentence: Jane went to the school.

Same sentence in Japanese: School Jane To Went Monkey Apple Carbeurator.

Japanese grammar is not for the faint of heart or weak of mind. What's more, the Japanese also do not have any words for "me", "them", "him, or "her" that anyone could use without being incredibly insulting (the Japanese word for "you", for example, when written in Kanji, translates to "I hope an elephant tramples your face"). Because of this, the sentence "He just killed her!" and "I just killed her!" sound exactly the same, meaning that most people in Japan have no idea what is going on around them at any given moment. You are supposed to figure these things out from the "context", which is a German word meaning "you're screwed".


(to be continued)

Thinking Cap: ON

A madman who has threatened to explode several bombs in crowded areas has been apprehended. Unfortunately, he has already planted the bombs and they are scheduled to go off in a short time. It is possible that hundreds of people may die. The authorities cannot make him divulge the location of the bombs by conventional methods. He refuses to say anything and requests a lawyer to protect his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. In exasperation, some high level official suggests torture. This would be illegal, of course, but the official thinks that it is nevertheless the right thing to do in this desperate situation.
Do you agree? If you do, would it also be morally justifiable to torture the mad bomber’s innocent wife if that is the only way to make him talk? Why?

A Year in Quotations: 22/365

"Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none."

Luke 3:11

on the same page

           When she posted work assignments on the bulletin board, and McMurphy read that she’d given him latrine duty, he went to her office and knocked on that window of hers and personally thanked her for the honor, and told her he’d think of her every time he swabbed out a urinal. She told him that wasn’t necessary; just do his work and that would be sufficient, thank you.

            The most work he did on them was to run a brush around the bowls once or twice apiece, singing some song as loud as he could in time to the swishing brush; then he’d splash in some Clorox and he’d be through. “That’s clean enough,” he’d tell the black boy who got after him for the way he hurried through his job, “maybe not clean enough for some people, but myself I plan to piss in ‘em, not eat lunch out of ‘em.” And when the Big Nurse gave in to the black boy’s frustrated pleading and came in to check McMurphy’s cleaning assignment personally, she brought a little compact mirror and she held it under the rim of the bowls. She walked along shaking her head and saying, “Why, this is an outrage … an outrage …” at every bowl. McMurphy sidled right along beside her, winking down his nose and saying in answer, “No; that’s a toilet bowl ... a toilet bowl.”

             But she didn’t lose control again, or even act at all like she might. She would get after him about the toilets, using that same terrible, slow, patient pressure she used on everybody, as he stood there in front of her, looking like a little kid getting a bawling out, hanging his head, and the toe of one boot on top of the other, saying, “I try and try, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’ll never make my mark as head man of the crappers.”

Ken Kesey, One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest

on the same page

“Hell, are you birds telling me I can’t lift that dinky little gizmo?”

“My friend, I don’t recall anything about psychopaths being able to move mountains in addition to their other noteworthy assets.”

“Okay, you say I can’t lift it. Well by God ...”

McMurphy hops off the table and goes to peeling off his green jacket; the tattoos sticking half out of his T-shirt jump around the muscles on his arms.

"Then who’s willing to lay five bucks? Nobody’s gonna convince me I can’t do something till I try it. Five bucks ...”

“McMurphy, this is as foolhardy as your bet about the nurse.”

“Who’s got five bucks they want to lose? You hit or you sit. ...”

The guys all go to signing liens at once; he’s beat them so many times at poker and blackjack they can’t wait to get back at him, and this is a certain sure thing. I don’t know what he’s driving at; broad and big as he is, it’d take three of him to move that panel, and he knows it. He can just look at it and see he probably couldn’t even tip it, let alone lift it. It’d take a giant to lift it off the ground. But when the Acutes all get their IOUs signed, he steps up to the panel and lifts Billy Bibbit down off it and spits in his big callused palms and slaps them together, rolls his shoulders.

“Okay, stand outa the way. Sometimes when I go to exertin’ myself I use up all the air nearby and grown men faint from suffocation. Stand back. There’s liable to be crackin’ cement and flying steel. Get the women and kids someplace safe. Stand back. ...”

“By golly, he might do it,” Cheswick mutters.

“Sure, maybe he’ll talk it off the floor,”Fredrickson says.

“More likely he’ll acquire a beautiful hernia,” Harding says. “Come now, McMurphy, quit acting like a fool; there’s no man can lift that thing.”

“Stand back, sissies, you’re using my oxygen.”

Ken Kesey, One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest

Strength.

Things to do, Pages to flip

This school year, I read three books.
Yes people, three. The shame I feel cannot be put into words, it is so great. How can an honors student manage to read only three books within the span of an entire school year?.. In addition to the pathetic number, they ranged from a measly 280-400 pages each. I covered My Sister's Keeper (which went on to become one of my favorites), Norwegian Wood (required some analysis before I could truly appreciate it), and Polite Lies (something like a second bible to me).
After all the wretched homework is handed in and all the exams are written, it's nothing but me and the below. If you have any recommendations, feel free to comment!

Heaven's Net is Wide
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
Memoirs of a Geisha
47
The Art of Racing in the Rain
The Little Prince 
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
Dear John
The Dream of Water
Incarceron

Opinion: The Dictator

While on a brief holiday in Whistler this long weekend, my mom and I went to watch The Dictator. I was expecting lots of laughs and I was not disappointed, so I personally award it a solid 7.5/10 stars.
I warn potential viewers though, as Sasha Baron Cohen spares no one. I found the movie hilarious at times because I like my insults short, sweet and straight to the point. As my mom said, "this movie shits on everybody. White people, Black people, Asians, Americans, women, democracy..." I agree with this statement therefore I caution against seeing this movie to anyone experiencing political, racial and cultural sensitivity. Deep hatred for Sasha Baron Cohen is a common side-effect after the viewing of this movie. Consult your moral values before watching. Viewer discretion is advised.

A Year In Quotations: 21/365

"If you keep on doing what you've always done, you'll keep on getting what you've always got." W. L. Bateman

Faith in Humanity: Lost

And we are still judging.

. . .

What's wrong with us?

Subconscious Chaos

For those who are wondering what I am like at home, this picture is an excellent interpretation of what I look like when I come across something incredibly funny on the internet.


What am I listening to: You (B2ST)
What am I thinking of: my followers
What I should be doing: studying
What I want to do: paint my nails

Mom

Thank you for changing my diapers.

Thank you for seeing me off to school.

Thank you for cooking good food.

Thank you for teaching me manners.

Thank you for doing the laundry.

Thank you for pushing me.

Thank you for always caring.

live and let live

After re-watching "The Last Holiday" with my mom this morning (which happens to be one of my old-time favorites), I felt inspired to live each day to the fullest. For those who don't know the movie, the basic story line is that a lower-middle class African American woman (played by Queen Latifah) living in Louisiana and working as a sales clerk is diagnosed with a brain disease and is given three weeks to live. Instead of sulking around, she takes all the money out of her bank account and spends her last weeks at Grand Hotel Pupp, trying everything from sky diving to gambling to spa therapy. She lives her dreams out in those three weeks.

But why do we need to wait? Why is it that in everyone's life, something terrible has to happen for us to realize the true worth of things? Why do we place seemingly valuable things such as our job before our own health and happiness? I don't know the meaning of life. But I know the purpose - to live. To live each day to the fullest, to love freely and to smile often. To enjoy all we are offered and not be afraid to give back more than we receive. To get off our butts and to run outside and sit in the sunshine. To sing when we are happy and to let other people sing too. To turn our anger, sadness and fear into positive things, because our time is constantly running out. To finish our homework and housework, and to spend time with our friends. To take a second to reflect. To smile and laugh every single chance we get. To cherish one another more than anything else. That is life's purpose.

Chicken Butt

Meet my sister.
She happens to have four legs and fur.
Her name is Kiara and she is three.
She likes socks and all-natural lip balm.
She hates alcohol.
Her favorite toy is Squeaky, who is a ball.
Kiara has 5 siblings of the canine variety.
She is a pure-breed Italian Greyhound.
She is afraid of thunder and strong wind.
She sings along with the guitar.
Kiara works as a professional photo model.
She was named after Simba's daughter.
She has completed the first grade of doggy school.
She does not sleep without a pillow.
She adores a few of my friends.
After eating, she always burps in my face.
She stretches for ten minutes in the morning.
She twirls her ears to make them look like roses.
She's the cutest, most annoying little poop ever.

Flights of Fancy

I stand in front of my parent's house, the building that served me as a home years ago. The beige paint on the wooden fences surrounding the complex of identical 3-story houses is chipping off bit by bit, revealing the grey wood beneath. Flicking up the latch on the gate, I step into the tiny garden, barely large enough to hold a few flower pots. The hours my mother spent filling them with bright blue forget-me-nots and pale yellow petunias have not left a trace - the ceramic pots have overgrown with weeds and dandelions.

I dig inside my leather backpack for the golden pair of keys and pull them out with a familiar twinkling sound - returning to my childhood home, the jingle of my old keys is the first sound that welcomes me. Once inside, I put my shoes on an empty rack and climb the first flight of stairs, listening to my quiet breathing, being the only living soul in the house. I cling to my brand new backpack with both hands, the only medium between my adult life with its high-strung business men, prestigious jobs and expensive clothing; and my childhood days, full of homework, trips with friends and irresponsibility. I glance around the living room, the dust floating around lazily between the thin sunrays creeping in from the half-closed blinds. The black armchair sits in the same corner as it used to when I still lived here, but as I near it, I notice the seat and the armrests look shabby and worn out. I step quietly, as if to not let the spirits of the past know that I have returned after so many years.

Absorbed in thought, I drift over to the piano, swipe my hand over the polished black wood and immediately regret my action. Coughing the freshly risen dust out of my nose, I lift the key cover and jab my fingers at a sequence of notes my piano teacher engraved in my memory at the age of nine. I play the short melody again and remember my young self, complaining loudly about practicing as my mother chopped vegetables in the kitchen with the TV on, drowning out my whining.

Replacing the key cover, I turn and make my way up the flight of stairs leading to the third floor, stopping on the landing to straighten a stack of lopsided books. As I turn down the dark hall leading to my old bedroom, I step on the area of the floor that makes an impossibly loud squeaking sound. A wide grin spreads across my face as I recall the nights I spent sneaking past it when I was a teenager, trying not to notify my father that I was still up.

I push down on the silver handle of my white door and open it in one swift movement. I am standing in the doorway of my teenage sanctuary with its brown walls, two windows and white furniture. As I step into the middle of the room and glance around, I see that nothing has been moved from the spot I have left it in – my first real guitar is still standing in its corner; my once-new headphones are neatly put away in their black case; the beige stuffed bunny is sitting on the nightstand. Memories of high school flood my mind as my gaze falls on the wall scroll of my favorite boy band. At once, one of their songs starts blaring in the back of my brain, even though I had not heard it from the time I moved away from home. Somehow, the years I had spent living in the middle of a busy city, away from this quiet neighborhood, do not have an impact on my memory of the clear vocals and the low beat.

Stepping around my small bed, I silently laugh at my younger self, who always wanted a bigger one but never followed through with her plans of refurnishing her bedroom – I may have changed some of my other bad habits, but a quality like procrastination is difficult to get rid of. I open the bottom drawer of my nightstand and pick up what I was expecting to find. I carefully leaf through the pages of my old journal, picking up scattered words and phrases, painting a picture of what my life had been like several decades ago. I seemed so free, only thinking of grades and boys.

I put the tattered journal back in its place and make a mental note of coming back a few months down the road to transport a few more of my belongings to my apartment. Before leave the room, I take a dusty picture frame off my desk and put it away carefully inside my backpack. It holds a small photo from high school, showing my two oldest friends laughing away together, both of whom have lived a part of my journey with me, but have taken different paths to continue on their own.

A Year in Quotations: 20/365

"It is one of the blessings of

old friends that you can

afford to be stupid with them."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter 9. Tears

As the waxwings and robins crowded around me in the cage, all of them screaming to be fed, I wasn't sure if I should continue caring for them. I had enjoyed my work because I thought the whole process proved that I was capable of both devotion and attachment: I could act like an anxious and overprotective mother for a few weeks and then let the birds go without regret because I respected their independence. In a small way, I thought, I was practicing an ideal kind of love, caring but rational, devoted but not possessive. After I cried about the nighthawk, I was forced to admit - yet again - that there was nothing rational about love and devotion. I didn't like that realization at all.

Kyoko Mori, Polite Lies

Free Birds

That awesome moment when...
you realize that their life isn't yours and that everything will be fine  ^_^


What am I listening to: Julia (Infinite)

What am I thinking of: getting a haircut

What I should be doing: socials homework

What I want to do: take a walk outside, it's lovely out!

Jeez, I'm a trainwreck.

A girl's playlist will say more about her current state of mind than her mouth ever will.
Is that how the saying goes?

Subconscious Chaos

I always get jealous of people. Most often, it's for their looks, their brains, their talents, or their attitudes. But there's a difference between my kind of jealousy and the common kind. When I am jealous of someone, I don't say, "I hate so-and-so! They're so pretty/smart/funny." I do something about it (and I don't mean eliminate them so I have no competition).
I am constantly looking up to a handful of individuals, trying to change myself to resemble them in some way. My inspirations include Sungha Jung and Neil Pasricha, but the people that really affect me are those who go to my school, my friends. There are several girls who I am constantly jealous of and even some boys, for different reasons.
Today was one of those inspiring days. As our school handed out report cards for two terms, I was rather satisfied with mine, but seeing my average drop wasn't thrilling. Overall, I thought I did alright, but I didn't try all that hard this term, so I know I have to push the boundaries a little more this term. But then I saw the report card of a fellow classmate and my jaw practically hit the floor. His average was some percentages higher than mine, but what shocked me was that he got 100% in Chemistry class one and a half grades above his own level. One hundred percent. In both terms. But you know what? That's going to be me. Yup. Time to be the smart girl.
So why does seeing someone better inspire me?  I think it's got something to do with my optimistic outlook, and I consider myself lucky for it. I can look at Sungha Jung, and instead of saying "he is the reason I play the triangle", I say, "he is the reason I dusted off my guitar".