The New Black

I'm amazed at the velocity at which my body can create rather large amounts of mucus. If only it could manufacture Volvo saloon cars at a similar speed. I would so retire to... somewhere.

Yeah, I'm kinda sick. But it's all good. I'm just sick enough to feel sorry for myself, but not so sick that it actually registers, unlike some people I know. These people who have had surgery today after somebody stepped on their left arm. And that was actually in an attempt to set the bone right! Damn, these Japanese physicians and their... feet? Anyway, get well soon, Mr Tiki!

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A lot's happened since last we met. Not only has this thing gotten brand new sparkling threads in a vain effort not to give up too much distance to Mr Da Pete in our vicious blog challange, but I've also spent a day opening 19 bottles of champagne. Well, it didn't really take that long, but it was quite fun. I've also been to Shinjuku, Takadanobaba, Shibuya, Kamakura, and that's not even mentioning where I actually live, despite me having been there too. And! In one of those places, I met someone named Jeanne D'Arc. That's a fine piece of naming-devil-may-care on behalf of a couple of parents, right there. I applaud them for it! But I digress...

From the top: Attentive readers will no doubt (?) have noticed the new little list right there on the, well, right. It makes a pretentious claim about me liking "A rainy Shinjuku". It makes several other pretentious claims too, but I shall only justify that one, at least for now. So to do that, I offer the following: How can you not like a place that looks like this:

The Rainy Shinjuku of which I speak. Or spoke, at least.

And now, for something completely different! Construction worker sadism. Why is it that the people trying to build something across the street from me absolutely have to do their loudest work when I am trying to get my best sleep? On a frikkin' Saturday. I do not want to wake up at eight a.m. I did not call the front desk to ask for a wake up call, not that there is one to call. Nevertheless, these people see fit to wake me (me, I tell you!) with their... building. And just when I've given in, just when I've realised I'm not going to get any more sleep after half an hour's intensive banging, they stop, content in the knowledge that I am awake. Self-centered? Surely not!

Anyway, I'm sure they've all had this for breakfast. That surely must be the root of all this evil.

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So, work. Aside from the champagne, one interesting thing happened. I was standing outside the entrance, and then I hear a pretty impressive crashing noise, see some pretty impressive sparks, and react way to late to the tire rolling away from the Merc at rather impressive speed. Thankfully, I was about two meters away from its path, and equally thankfully, it was stopped by the door or a taxi and not the flesh and bone of a someone. But it was kind of... rad.

Find the missing wheel, win a prize!

I know this post's a bit picture-heavy, but all this multimedia hoo-hah of late means I have to give the kidz what they want. And that's not text. No siree. They want pictures. They really do. Actually, I'm sure they'd prefer the new-fangled type of moving pictures, but somewhere I have to draw the line. Anyway, what follows is what you can find in the fine coastal city of Kamakura, once proud capital of the nation:

A bamboo forest

A traditional Japanese avocado burger. From Hawaii.

A random guy trying to steal a star.

I guess that should satisfy pretty much anyones craving of colored pixels for now. But just in case, I'll give it one last try. Final sale, everything must go! Have no fear, the holy mountain depicted below was not actually having an eruption at the time. I think. Tune in next week as I dissect every single one of the twelve plates of sushi I had at the gorgeous Kappa sushi located 10-15 minutes away by foot from my current domicile, and also: The weekend! Yes!

The Omasum

I tend to talk to myself (more) when I have a cold. Maybe it's because it sounds like I'm talking to somebody else.

There is no toilet paper in my apartment. I don't think that's ever happened before. Well ok, now there is paper. I wrote that, and then finally reached the point where my need for the article in question outweighed my substantial but not infinite laziness, so I went out and bought some. Although I do kind of wonder what the lady at my local (super) market - the aptly named Fit Care Depot - thought of me when I came in to buy eight rolls of toilet paper, a bottle of Coke, and two packs of Instant Yakisoba (the "instant noodle" of the knowing consumer) while the Backstreet Boys were rocking the speakers in the store. Maybe I'll go back to ask her. Nah.

So! In order to amaze and astound, I present you with the following: A picture of a mountain I have climbed with a friend of mine whom I'm in a vicious blog challenge with, the other is a picture which has been given the honor of titling this post.

A mountain.

A dish.

Now, while I could speak at length about most things in general and holy Japanese mountains in particular, I shall focus my efforts on that... thing on the plate right there. You see, it is the "omasum", as I learned this morning when I looked it up. Good thing I didn't do that last night. Turns out (if you can't be bothered to read the six lines on Wikipedia) that it is the third compartment in the stomach of cattle and other happy four-compartmented-stomach-beings. If you aren't a vet (of the animal-loving, not napalm-dropping kind), that might not be very interesting, except that you can eat it. Apparently. At least you can at this little place in Yokohama I was led to. On the way there, one of the two people with me said we were about a block away from where "dangerous Yokohama" becomes "Dangerous Yokohama". I never did get around to asking how he drew the border so that a place that serves inside-out cow's stomach ends up in the "safe" part. As a final... something, not only do you have to pay for the privilege, you also have to cook the thing yourself. The lengths some people go to to get their omasum, I tell you. Suffice to say, I think it'll be a while before I come much closer to abandoning this carcass-centric lifestyle I'm leading than I was last night.

Moving on! In the haha-I-can-see-a-mountain-from-where-I-work category, I can mention that that shot was taken on the fifth floor of, well, where I work. Then again, I can also see a lot of dealers of pre-owned automobiles, so maybe I should downplay the location-angle.

Oh, but I have other completely non-connected pieces of news to dazzle you with:

1) In an interview on tv the other morning, a Japanese fella' by the name of Shigeru was interviewed. Questions in English, answers in Japanese, pretty standard fare. But of course, he was dubbed to English, as it was an American channel doing the producing. But of course, he was then dubbed back into Japanese again, as it was a Japanese subsidiary doing the broadcasting. If my current job doesn't end up working out, I'm so going into translating. Those folks seem to have a lot to do these days.

2) At an ATM near the near-fabulous station of Shin-yokohama, there is an ATM which, I'm near-certain, is equipped with a device that scans the vein pattern in your hand. Thumb-prints? Were you born in the year of the rooster, or what? Anyway, I'm so going to change my bank. Also, the name of the bank: MUFG. Which stands for Mitsubishi-Tokyo UFJ Ginko. And no, nobody really knows what the UFJ stands for, why neither "Tokyo" or the J in UFJ were deemed important enough to be included in the official abbreviation, or what the **** I'm doing writing about it in the first place.

3) A random Japanese person asked me about my real name this week, knowing my Japanese one. And she guessed correctly! Frightening. That's the first time that's happened. I'm so going to... I don't know? Get an even more secret alias?

In the words of a dear friend of someone dear to me: "Must drop off now."

The Change

Leonardo DiCaprio was just on TV, in an ad for some random property development. This was followed by a program where celebrities learn how to re-use a paper cup in various, wondrous ways. Yup, I'm in Japan again.

They say "the more things change, the more they stay the same." I don't know who "they" are, but I do know that they are, indeed, full of crap. I mean seriously, think about it. If things change, they do NOT stay the same, no? If things stay the same the more they change, then that would mean my coming to Japan actually is the same as me staying in Sweden, Loft in Shinjuku closing equaling it staying open, the third guy at the World's Finest Rameneria (Yayaya in Yotsuya, as if you didn't know) leaving would mean him staying, and the train I was supposed to take to the airport (Copenhagen, naturally) being delayed an hour would mean it arrived on time. So no chance of that, then.

Yeah, I had a bit of a run-in getting here (which for those of you keeping score is Shin-yokohama. Or "New Yokohama." Pretty much the same relationship with regular old Yokohama as York and New York, I would imagine). It ended up with me being driven to the airport instead of taking the train. The driver was none other than Anders Borg. You may know Anders Borg as the finance minister (or Chancellor of the Exchequer, collect the whole set of chancellors and get a free petri dish!) of the Kingdom of Sweden. Sadly, while I've experienced episodes involving previous holders of that office, this kind man bore very little resemblance to that Anders Borg. But he did get both of us to the airport. In time, no less.

As a fine character in an equally fine movie once put it: "I've been here a week, I've got my name on the door, a geranium in the window, but I'm still waiting for my secretary". What, if any relevance that particular statement holds for me in my situation remains unclear.

However! I have now taken the big - and as all other big things, scary - step into the world of working men. Or 60% working women, in my case. Thus far, the only thing I can say about work is that the people are quite excellent, and that I "only know that I know nothing", or however that went. It's gonna be fun though. I think.

Now, I could regale you with tales of my first week, but I don't think you want that. In all honesty, I don't think you'll prefer the following, but as they say on the Interwebs: Tough shit. As I have been busy working this past week (did you not read the above paragraph? It say so right there), not a lot of pictures were taken. Which means I'll test your identifying skillz using the following. You mission, which you have accepted by reading this far (see the above part about "tough shit") is to either tell me the location of the keypad - somewhere in the entire known universe! - or which one of the remotes I brought with me here, and what its role is. As that is deemed to be the easier task, you will only receive 4/5ths the immortal honor by solving that one as you would the top one.

A keypad. What did you think it was? Mustard? Ok, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so, well, mean. It must be the last of the jetlag. Or maybe the proximity to fermented beans.


Five remotes. There can be only one! Triple word score to anybody who can tell me what the small white one does. I've lived here a week and I have no clue.

There, that little bit of audience participation didn't kill you, did it? Good. Moving on, I can mention that we had a magnitude 4.2 quake here a couple of days ago. I hardly felt it, but the Intertron told me it was 4.2, so there's no denying it. The reason I hardly felt it either has to do with me being a total badass, or that the house here is pretty quake-resistant. You pick.

Also, I have a new friend. He lives on the same floor as me, and can open the combination lock on my mailbox without knowing the combination. Hell, I don't even know that combination. If you ever need a lock picked and Charles Ingvar Jonsson isn't around, feel free to give me a call. I'll pass him the info.

Be sure to tune in next week as... things will have happened! Trust me on this.