Tuesday, June 28, 2011

to do list

Time: Monday afternoon
Music: Miles Davis... So what.
Blogging is so incredibly new to me, and I really don't know its in and outs.  The google layout is pretty self explanitory, but there are so many little things that aren't...  I have a feeling I am spending way too much time on this, but I have to admit that there is an addictive edge to all of this.


Getting ready for Japan is a bit of a nightmare too.  I will be sending my documentation to the Consulate tomorrow via UPS, but there are other things I need to pay attention to. 
1) I need to get my commission work done.  I have been fairly slack ass about it, and quite unmotivated.
2) I need to get pension info together to send to Japan, so I can get started with that whole system once I get there.
3) I need to start sorting out what is going to get taken and what is going to get trashed.
4) I need to make an emergency sheet for my parents, including all my account information and passwords.
5) I need to arrange for medications to try and control my wild ass blood sugar, and figure out how this will work once it runs out.
6) I need to do the laundry... like now...

Damn... I have a headache now...

Monday, June 27, 2011

Being a Ronin part V

Time: Sunday evening
Music: Iron Maiden...The prophecy

In August 2001, I moved to Japan with NOVA and lived in Goi, which is in Ichihara-shi, in Chiba prefecture.  Like I have mentioned in previous posts, Goi had alot of illegal activity going through it.  The difference between illegal activity in Japan versus illegal activity in the US is that criminals go after criminals.  From what I understand, the Yakuza have pretty strict guidelines regarding messing with regular people.  When it comes to gaijin, we may as well be on different planets.  I didn't know it at the time, but my favorite bar was run by the wife of a high ranking Yakuza.  Running the gaijin bar was a kind of a side project for her, and when she would come, she would always come with her body guard; a guy with 3 fingers on one hand a running suit and a bit of an attitude. We all just called her Mamasan.  Mamasan used some kind of crazy, outdated colloquialisms in her Japanese, but she had an odd affection for me.  As it turns out, the Yakuza are very superstitious, and I when I was drinking there, business was good... hence, I was her lucky charm.  She was always pretty nice to me, and even tried to hook me up with her daughter... a 17 year old drop out to whom Mama bought some kind of boutique for her to run as a business.  I politely declined.

One night after work, I went directly to The Phoenix, and was having a pretty good time there.  As usual, they had 6 TVs going on at the same time... but then again it was a sports bar.  Most of the Flower mansion crowd was there, and at that time I was the only American.  One guy, a Kiwi, who was one of the biggest drunkards I have ever met, went on and on about how he hated Americans.  I just sat there and listened to him prattle on his venom.  I bought him another beer, and he said I was an exception to the rule.  I really liked that guy...  Soon, one of the bartenders started to tell me how there was some kind of accident in New York, and a building was on fire.  He turned a couple of the TVs to the channels showing it live... And that is when I watched the second plane hit the world trade center.  I just stared at the TV for the next few hours in disbelief while others made comments around me.  The Australian guy was starting to be a real prick.  "America is under attack, man!" he said as he was giggling and bouncing around... I really wanted to smash his skull through with a mug at the time, but I was still in shock, and that level of violence has never been in my character.  My British roommate said to me "Now you know how we felt, getting bombed."  It wasn't in a mean way, and the way he actually said it was kind. For the next few weeks, all my students would always ask me if I had family in New York.  It actually got irritating after a while, but they were trying to be nice and they were generally concerned. 
The view outside my front door in Kisarazu.
After the second year, I had become an old hand at NOVA.  Most people would stay for a little less than 1 year, get frustrated with Japan, and leave.  There were two others that were really long timers there however.  An Australian and a Canadian; both charisma men.  If you have never heard of a charisma man, google it and you will be very entertained.  In short however, its a guy who can not get women in his own country but when he comes to Japan, he starts to get dates fairly easily just based on his personality.  Eventually a charisma man begins to get an overly inflated ego of himself, and begins to think they are the center of the universe.  They were both interesting characters, but each had a very warped view on women.  One in particular would often tell me it was very easy to "bully" your way into a relationship.  I have to admit, in Japan I found dating much simpler than in America.  I never did go to the Charisma man extreme though.  I was very lucky though to meet a wonderful woman while in Goi.  Not as a girlfriend, but as a mentor.  She was an older Japanese teacher and I went to her class at least 4 times a week in the beginning.  Her name was Reiko, and we became good friends.  I often called her my Japanese mother.

drunk charisma man... and Japanese girl trying to get away He was a funny guy though.
I stayed in Goi for roughly a year and a half, until I moved to Kisarazu.  I actually was working in Kisarazu most of the time, so I thought that the move would be better.  Living in the Flower Mansion was fun for a while, but the magic was soon gone.  The really fun people had moved on, and in their place came people I really had nothing in common with.  The culture in that building had shifted, and I got tired of the non stop shuffle of roommates.  Reiko helped me with finding a place, and I really liked it there.  My salary was also really good at NOVA, and I lived by myself in a 2DK apartment.  This time truly by myself, and it was a good run while I was there.  I really felt at home in Kisarazu, and just down the street was a Don Kihote, where I was a regular.  What I really loved about Kisarazudont know why.
Hard to see, but that little cloud looking thing is Mt. Fuji.  Its just a low rez pic of my route home


Over time, I did everything that NOVA offered in the way of training courses, and I was pretty popular with the students, but I saw how the Japanese staff treated students, and that bothered me.  Once they had the students money, they treated them like cattle.  As long as they kept getting new contracts and renewals, nothing else mattered, so I quit...  Not before I got another job with another company... A company that was well known for a place that readily hired former NOVA teachers.  That company was Interac... That is another story...

The visa progresses...

Time: Sunday afternoon
Music: Kasabian....  Test transmission

Taking a break from my 'Being a Ronin' series for a visa update.  My wife did the paperwork for the visa in Japan and submitted it on March 7th.  Of course, that massive earthquake hit a few days later and delayed it a little. She called back to immigration a few months later to see if there was any significant delay, but all they would say was that the Certificate of Eligibility would take approximately 3 months.  3 months and 1 week later, I have the COE in hand.  The next step was to drive to Atlanta, pay the fee, and do all the application work.  I took the time off of work a week beforehand and began to prepare.  It turns out all the information and forms are on the web.  I was trying to do things the same way I did them in 2001, but time progresses on.  I called the Japanese consulate in Atlanta just in case however and they told me that everything can be done by mail... but they told me a million times that they would not be responsible if it was lost in the mail.  So what I need to send is the visa application, 2 passport photos, a waiver of liability for sending things in the mail, and my COE.  They made it clear that its really important that I sign the passport, as that is a cause of a lot of denials.  To this I have to provide return postage as well. Fortunately, for a US citizen, there is no visa fee. 

Its great news since I dont have to make a 4 hour pilgrimage to Atlanta, hang out for an hour, and spend another 4 hours driving home.  Now... will I go into work tomorrow?  I doubt it....

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Being a Ronin part IV

Time: Definitely Sunday morning
Music: Pink Floyd... The gunners dream


What the hell does all this have to do with a Ronin?  It has more to do with my hopping from job to job, and it seems to describe my past hops pretty well.  Finally here is the final repost, and it was when I was in the process of waiting for a position at NOVA.


pre2.BMP (1452534 bytes)
Presque isle in Marquette, Michigan.  My favorite place in the world
The time has almost come for me to move out of my apartment. I am not sure if I am going to miss this place, or if I just hate moving. Its probably a little bit of both. I have sold lots of things that I can’t take with me; Mostly hobby things. Its so hard to get all of this money together to leave, but it seems like it would be worth it. NOVA has a deal for a one way ticket to Japan for about $870. I wish I knew where they where going to have me assigned, but all I know, is that it will be somewhere in the Kanto region. Originally, when asked what cities I wanted to live in, I put down: Kyoto, Chiba, Yokohama, and Tokyo. I am hoping for Chiba, since I hear its more countryside than city, and that is what I like. My first choice was Kyoto, but the recruiter said that he had openings in every school except in Hokkaido, Okinawa, and Kyoto. My money is that I will be placed in Chiba. I hate guessing though.
What do you think I am doing in this 3 month interim between jobs? After that hell on Earth I went through,  I am officially on a 3 month vacation. Its hard for me to describe, but working at the SC home for boys was like being alone in the dark for 2 years. The sky always seemed to be gray, I slept too much, and I did not want to ever do anything. Believe it or not, but most of the time on my days off where spent worrying about going back to work. After quitting, and being gone from work for about a week, it felt like the blood in my veins started circulating again. I felt alive again.
I responded in about a few days after being accepted by NOVA, and officially took the position. I mailed them the proper documentation, and within a few weeks, they sent me a package on what region they will have me work in, what to bring, so on and so forth. They also told me that they have shipped my documentation to Japan, and I should get everything in order about 2 to 3 weeks before I actually leave. I should be practicing my Katakana and Hiragana, but I have been incredibly lazy.

One of the things I have planned is to go up to the upper peninsula of Michigan. My father grew up there, and I went to college there for 2 years. I used to go there every summer when I was a kid, for the fourth of July. I am glad that I am going to get this chance to go, because word is, that my grandfather has just gotten lung cancer and my grandmother is going blind. My grandparents are perhaps the most stubborn people I know though. I heard my grandmother couldnt see well enough to cut her own food, but she drove to church on Sunday. Stubborn....
Life in the Upper Peninsula (UP) is almost ritualized, especially during the month of July. The UP is part of disappearing America, the town Ishpeming in particular, where my Grandparents live. Every friday the VFW has a fish fry, which is very popular, and is actually a big draw. The morning of the 4th of July there is that small town parade that my grandfather adores, and then that night there are fireworks. The only problem is that it doesnt get dark in the UP until 11pm that time of year.

All things considered... I am glad that I got my last chance to say goodbye.

Post script 2011...  My grandfather did pass away shortly after I had left for Japan.

Being a Ronin part III

Time: Same as the other Ronin posts
Music: Pink Floyd... Time
OK... This one only has cursing in it, but nothing of a political nature.  I am posting this one because I found it really funny... But that just might be me.

About every decade or so, the National Guard sends its troops to the desert for war games, and it was now our turn. The whole battalion took charter buses to a secluded portion of Greenville airport. All of us where armed with all kinds of weapons… M16A2 Assault rifles, and all sorts of knives, bayonets, and even machetes. When we arrived, about half a brigade of troops where already there, and a great green line of soldiers formed up in massive formations, ready to board either the 747, or two 737s’. It was an awesome site to see so many in uniform in one place like that.
The dustbowl

The weather there was hot and really humid. On top of it all, my sinuses where acting up, or so I thought… It later turned out to be a full- fledged flu. I crammed into the 747, and made sure to get myself a window seat (my favorite seat to fly in). I slowly became more feverish as the flight progressed, and by the time we landed in some secluded, shut down airfield, I was sick as hell. From there we took a bus ride to the base, and arrived at the base around 4 in the morning. I could hardly stand up by this point, but I did anyway, as collapsing probably would have made it more difficult for me in the long run. We where eventually crammed into a room, where our fearless leader… General Dumas, stood, holding a flag of South Carolina in one hand, and a flag bearing our unit crest in the other. This guy looked, talked, and acted like Ross Perot. He gave the expected "We are going to kick ass" kind of speech. Everyone was tired, and no one cared what this prick had to say. We where quickly assigned our area to bunk in. It turns out that our areas where not barracks, but long shed like structures roughly about 10 meters wide and 40 meters long, with only a roof in case it ever rained there I suppose. We passed by the High ranking officer’s air-conditioned trailers, to our area. The one thing that really annoyed me about this situation, was that it was located 300 meters away from the closest bathrooms. It was always very dusty there, and a permanent haze of cigarette smoke plagued the site. In addition, at night, giant floodlights glared down on all of us, so that it felt like we where sleeping in a football stadium. The whole area was aptly named "The dust bowl".  We where given uncomfortable cots and told to deal with it. To be honest, it was more comfortable to sleep in the dirt once we where on maneuvers, and "in the box."



Desert Ice cream
We got maybe 3 hours sleep before we woke up to the blazing sun, which had cleared the nearby mountains by 7am, and was almost in mid sky. We immediately set to work on our Bradleys’ (Infantry carrying tanks). It did not take long for me to develop heat exhaustion in combination with my flu, while working on the Bradley. It was hard to walk in that state, and I must admit that the environment seemed surreal those first few days. One of the more humorous things that happened was the fact that the army let ice cream trucks into the motor pool, were they sold ice cream at greatly inflated prices, and where always bought out by overheated soldiers.  I am sure those ice cream sellers can retire after just selling ice cream to us.  Each Bradley was tasked to have a load large crates full of equipment, loaded into it.  Most of the day was being spent doing 15 minute maintenance checks, but most of our day is wasted just hanging out inside the Bradleys.  Its not bad hanging out inside the Bradleys other than the boredom, but its not a good idea to be directly in the sun.  Its amazing how fast the sun will suck the energy out of you, and overheat you if your directly in it.  It is also very hot, and sometimes very windy...  Although wind is better than nothing, it is a hot wind, and throws dust everywhere.  There are so many dust devils all over the place.  These are not small ones either, these things look like small tornadoes and shoot dust hundreds of feet in the air.  Most of them average about 10 meters in diameter.
My Bradley crew consisted of the Platoon leader, 1st Lt. Frost as the Bradley commander (BC), the gunner, Sgt. Hollis, and a back up gunner, Sgt. Frasier, since Frost would have to occasionally jump out of the Bradley to lead the dismounted Infantry in attacking the objective. And finally myself, as the driver. As it turned out, Frasier mostly took up space during the whole of NTC. The crew next to us, was a very motivated crew who used to make up the core of the old self- starting soldiers. Among them was the driver Dutch, their BC SSgt. Rains, and their gunner Murphy. Murphy was a Phillip- Morris poster boy, and made sure to bring 4 cartons of Marlboros’. Unfortunately, Murphy and Dutch where trying to quit. This group was effectively the 3rd in command. The 2nd Bradley in Command was our platoon sergeant, SFC Arnold, A squat man, that was the spitting image of Gary Coleman, and a Napoleon complex a mile long. His gunner was an amiable, but rather abused southern boy named Green. I liked him, despite his born again Christian zeal and preaching, and felt generally bad that Arnold gave him all the shitty details he could think of. Arnold’s driver was a dopey, gold toothed kid, who stood around with, what to me, looked like a drunken grin, and laughed like Scooby doo. He was part of the good old boy clique that was discussed previously, and annoyed the shit out of me by merely existing. He wasn’t a bad kid I suppose, I guess I disliked what he was a part of more.
While we where in the dust bowl, the gas attack alarm went off, so we dropped what we where doing and suited up in our NBC uniform. The NBC suit consists of a charcoal lined suit, large rubber over boots, and almost arm length rubber gloves. The suit as a whole adds about 20 degrees of heat since the whole damn thing isn’t meant to breathe. The temperature was already 110 degrees as it was, so the heat was excessive. After nearly an hour, Murphy and Dutch figured out how to rig the gas mask so they would be able to smoke. It was quite a sight to see smoke fill up the eye pieces of the mask, then again, that is what made those two entertaining to watch. When I came out of the suit, the charcoal liner had burst, and I was covered from head to foot with soot. I get out of the suit as quickly as possible, and stomped off to the showers 300 hundred meters away, black as midnight, and for a moment a star, as everyone laughed at took pictures. I was a good sport about it though, as it is must have looked very silly.

smoking in full gear

Eventually, the war games began, and to no surprise, most of our equipment failed because of their old age and ragged. While I was driving, it was always funny to hear Frost in the turret "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This god damned piece of shit, radio! It won’t send! Mother Fuckin’ piece of shit!" One time, the whole transmission tore itself to pieces, and stranded us in the middle of the desert for 48 hours. Frost hitched a ride with another Bradley, and Hollis, Frasier and I where left on our own, with a dwindling supply of water. The temperature during the day rose to 120 degrees during the day, and almost boiled the water we had stored. This is when I learned that if you drink hot water on a hot day, it makes you gag. Eventually we saw a truck carrying water and ice heading our way. We began flagging it down, but it was intent to pass us by. At that point we became desperate, and ambushed the truck. I stood in front of the truck and yelled at the driver, while Hollis and Frasier lept in the back and grabbed the water and ice. The driver of the truck was plenty displeased, and told us that he was going to report us. I yelled out my name to him, and told him to fuck off. I knew that if he told the brass, they wouldn’t do anything about it, because it was their fault that they left us stranded for 2 days with no supplies, even when the mandated that every soldier to drink lots of water.
Our Bradley eventually got towed to a maintenance point, where it was overhauled for 4 days. Frasier and I had the dull duty of staying in the rear and watching over the busted up Bradley. When we returned to the unit, we found out one of our missions was scrapped because of the Battalions 75% mechanical failure rate. Higher up was really pissed off, but they should have expected it from the 2nd hand, over-worn equipment. We set up our position 50 meters away from Rains’ Bradley, and when they lowered their ramp to come out and question us, a giant cloud of cigarette smoke billowed out from the vehicle. So much for Rains and Dutch’s attempt at quitting smoking… As usual, Murphy corrupted them all. 2 days later he ran out of cigarettes, and became very jumpy. Even the very professional Sgt. Rains, nerves where beginning to fray from the lack of nicotine. After 4 days of no smoking and short tempers, Murphy found a guy selling Newports at the fueling depot. He bought a few cases at an very high rate, and complained about how nasty they where everytime he smoked one, but he smoked them all none the less, and this time was more careful about letting his crew-mates bum one or two. I guess if you got to have one, then you got to have one.
Our active duty opponents cheated constantly, and would often, not have placed the sensors which made this war game possible, on their vehicles. So when we shot our lasers at them, nothing would happen. I guess it didn’t matter too much, since our laser stopped working, seconds into the fight, causing Frost to lose it again "What the fuck! Now the fucking MILES won’t work? What the hell is this!?! Piece of fucking shit! Great… The god damned radio is out again!" I could hear him pounding the hell out of the radio from my remote location in the driver’s compartment. Then he would yell at me "I want you to drive up to their location, get out, and start throwing rocks at them… After all, that’s all they are fucking giving us!" I often felt bad for Frost, since he was platoon leader, he had to siphon down the orders to us from the Captain. What made that screwy, is that no one above company level knew what was really going on. This usually gave us a false sense of mobilization when we would actually be waiting around, doing nothing, or training for the wrong thing.
                            There where times though, where I could admire the desert.  I hate the heat a great deal, but it seemed that a part of my soul was native to the desert.  The skys where so blue, and the wind in my face made me feel free.  There where times when I was on a ridge, that I felt like I need only will myself to grow wings, fly away, and live here... Never needing to eat or drink again.  Let me stress the heat though.  It isnt like you can find any shade in the desert, and the only shade we could find where in the Bradleys'.  When we would stop for a while, we would lower the trim vein on the front, and lay plywood over it, to create a shaded area under the Bradley.  Staying cool was the priority.


Near the end of NTC, after all the engagements where done, all of which we lost, we began our environmentally friendly task of walking the desert, picking up any trash we found, which was very little. It was a horrendous task, which belonged to the dismounted infantry. The dismounts came up two people short due to injuries, so Arnold gave the detail to the people he liked the least… Green and I. As I expected, it was an infamous cluster fuck I came to expect from the guard. The whole thing was run by the Command sergeant major, who in his zeal, forgot to arrange for us to have enough water. The detail would last all day, and the water ran out in 2 hours. It was extremely hot, hotter than usual, and many men where passing out from the heat. The request went to the sergeant major to get more water, but he refused, and said "They are just being pussies." No body liked the Sergeant major. One of the sergeants I knew who was a police officer in the real world, made a special mental note to get a real good look at the Sergeant majors car when we got back. I hope he did.
The last days, we quickly turned in our equipment, and collected our things, ready to board the awaiting bus. On our way out, we went back into the large room, which we came in originally, and there stood General Dumas. Thank god he had no speech for us, but instead passed out little coins, which had our battalion crest on it. That coin quickly made its way to my junk drawer when I got home.
We got on the bus and headed toward the abandoned airfield again, and when we where about to board they put us in an abandoned hanger and told us that we would have to spend an extra night there, because the plane was too hot to fuel. Everyone had made plans to have people pick them up, and no way to contact them. The entire Battalion became very angry and the Company commanders, whose livelihood depended upon the men, became very nervous. Eventually, the captains came around, and convinced the airforce to let us land at another city and refuel.
It took us 4 hours to take off once on the plane. Our pilot was what looked like a TWA reject, whom we saw was having a lot of mixed drinks being served to him. On the good side, he floored it all the way to our refuel point. On the bad side, he wasn’t good at the landing bit, and we where tossed out of our seats on that landing. We got in Greenville at about 5am, and got to our armory, where our tired out rides where waiting for us, at about 7am. I was the first off the bus, ran straight off, and into my sisters car, and told her to gun it before they called a formation, or kept us there for a dumb reason. I got home an hour later, to find that my family came in and cleaned my apartment, and even bought me new sheets and a comforter… How nice of them. I got out of uniform, took a shower, and sat on the bed to see what it felt like. I woke up 14 hours later.

NTC put the G in Goatfuck.

Being a Ronin part II

Time: Late Saturday night/Sunday morning
Music: Jeff Buckly... Halelujiah



Next in this pretty raw series, is a look at my work for the Department of Juvenile Justice.  At the time I was calling it the SC home for boys...  I have this odd tendency to protect privacy when I can.  A note on this though, a lot has changed since then for that organization, as I unbelievably went back to work for them in 2006, albeit at a different location.  If the first 'Being a Ronin' post didn't offend you, then this probably will do the trick:

Of course during my military service, I graduated from the university of South Carolina with a BS, and got a job working as an officer for a prison for wayward boys in South Carolina. In particularly, ones who where arrested for drug and alcohol problems. The program started out well, but new and incompetent leaders where installed by the new governor as a political favour. Rehabilitation was now our goal, and punishment and public protection went to the wayside. All of this was not kiddy land, as you may expect, but where young junkies (one in particular who needed a hit so bad, stole a syringe and injected himself with urine), rapists, sexual offenders, thieves, arsonists… Young thugs who worshipped idols in the form of false hip-hop gods, and who where in general, uneducated, not particularly bright, and disconnected from any sort of empathy. I was amazed at how music affected these kids. I had always been one to say that music is a reflection of life, and had no affect on people… But once again that would be a lie. They mainly listened to Hip Hop and when they where listening to it… They became more violent. I even experimented with it once… We had taken away their walkmans, and made them listen to a radio controlled by the officers. One day I listened to older music, but stuff that was more acceptable… The Temptations, Al Green, Marvin Gaye… The good stuff. The reaction the kids had was almost happy, and serene. The next day, I played some more modern stuff that I knew they would like… Busta Rhymes, Cypress Hill, that sort of thing. The kids enjoyed the music of course, but it spiraled out of control. They became violent, and irate. I had to cut that little experiment off early, because I had to break up too many fights, and try and correct outrageous behavior.
After a while, the program became moderately successful. That was more due to the contact between working staff and children. Communication between the Officers, counselors, and social workers was also superb. The anti drug and alcohol unit, in essence, cut itself off from the policy of the campus, and discipline was handled in unit. The architecture also favored security, allowing kids to have there own rooms. Kids also where there on contract, allowed extra incentives if they could conform, even early release… But if you screwed up, you where either kicked out of the program, or began at the bottom again, possibly extending their sentence. Contact between other kids in other dorms was strictly limited, so the kids could not be swayed by the other criminals. The program became successful enough eventually though, that it was expanded and given its own campus…
Big mistake.

All officers, counselors, and other staff, who transferred, had to go to special training courses, to help counsel the kids. The classes where in fact very insightful, but with one major flaw… One outside presenter, who thought this all was an outpatient service, clearly told us all, that this program could not work, was flawed, and would have disastrous results. That was water off a ducks back…
The success of the old unit depended on maximum exposure between kids and staff, limited contact with other kids, and above all, a voluntary program. All of this went in the toilet, and was quickly trumpeted as an innovative step, from the new, vainglorious administrators. The program quickly broke down and in essence, ceased to exist, it just went through the motions. The administrators noticed this, and quickly turned their attention to the officers, whom they launched an immediate pogrom against.
Imagine a place where sexual assault happened everyday to female officers, where kids actively smoked, got high, fought, gambled, attacked officers, and nothing was done about it. That was the place I worked in. Female officers really had it bad, as the boys, who already fucked up their mind on drugs and booze, and where mostly going through puberty to boot, loved to pull out their dicks and masturbate in front of women. All this shit was swept under the carpet by administration in an effort to look good in front of their superiors. It was all about the illusion of safety, where none in fact existed. At most, kids who committed only the worst of offenses in the institution where punished. Most of the aforementioned crimes where only punished by a slap on the wrist, a small stint in the maximum security unit (most of them liked it there because they got to sleep more, and sometimes tried to go there), and possibly making them do a chore. They still ate 3 times a day, and had their snack and juice before going to bed. When they did eventually go home, most came back, went to adult prisons, mental institutions, or where killed. There was almost never a happy ending, and the lucky ones lived a life of drug addicted poverty and sought after mediocrity. 

My route heading to work passed over the freeway… I26 west. Maybe I should just get off the road and drive to San Diego. I had enough money… I could do it. So why didn’t I? The answer is obvious of course… I would be fired, I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills, and my credibility with potential future employers would turn to shit.
What an exquisite cage we build for ourselves. We have become slaves and indentured servants. There is actually nothing to stop me from being free, except the limitations that I placed on myself… I would not even be breaking any laws if I got on old I26 and headed west as far as I could… No one could stop me… save my own master and worst enemy… Myself.

Being a Ronin part I

Time: Late Saturday night/ Early Sunday morning.
Music: The Doors ... This is the end

I suppose the thought of moving permanently back to Japan has made me evaluate and reflect on many things.  In a cathartic move, why not repost some old entries of mine from the late nineties, and eventually catch up to now?  So now, I will start with the first entry, which talks about my decision to go into the military in 1995…  Looking over it, I cant believe I wrote some of this stuff.  Its interesting how much some of my perspectives have changed.  If you are easily offended, perhaps you shouldn’t read further, but this is the unedited way this journey really started.

Where shall I begin? Shall we begin like David Copperfield? I am born? I grew up? I won’t be at all that organized. Let us instead begin in the middle. I joined the National Guard as an Infantryman, or rather I joined the ROTC in college. I was so gung ho about being an officer, and despite what people may think, ROTC at my university was the real deal. It was like a fraternity with a mission, run by Army Rangers. It was a common phrase to say, "School shit is getting in the way of Army shit again…" I volunteered for everything… Colour guard, field trips, and functions involving the ROTC. There was a program where you joined the National Guard while you where concurrently enrolled in the ROTC called the SMP program. "What a fantastic opportunity" I thought… "A real officer should know what it is like in the dirt before he leads men." The officers and of course, the National Guard liaison thought it was a great idea as well. I would like to tell you that it was all a logical decision. I would like to tell you that things worked out for the best. But this is no fairytale land and things could not have gone in a stranger direction. Enter Meche… A euphemism, ghost or specter of my past… A woman. I was destroyed inside because I gave my heart to a woman who cared nothing for me. Like all idiot men in love, I did not get it, and destroyed my dignity trying to woo her. I will not say that it was all her fault and that I hate her for being a cold unfeeling bitch… But that would be lying. I tried to hate her, but it became clear in my eyes that the fault was more of my own, and my obsession with her. After all, I am not a movie star, underwear model, or a Rock God. In fact I am the opposite, and in comparison, a swamp when compared to a scenic coastal vista. She wasn’t a goddess either, but that is not why I fell in love with her.
I joined the Army in a last ditch effort of my mind, trying to kickstart my heart, to clear my mind of Meche. Infantry Basic training was at the home of the Infantry itself… In the place where basic training was still hard… A wilderness where the PC politicians of Washington had little sway. I went to the hardest basic training post in the country, to the hardest basic training battalion in the brigade, to the hardest basic training company… The house of Pain, to the hardest basic training platoon… The Warlords. Women where viewed as dilution of the standards… I remember when we graduated basic training, our drill sergeant saying, "Now you have finished basic training… That was all the shit all the other pussies and women do… Now its time for Infantry shit!" Gay people did not exist there, and it was a commonly held perspective among the more liberal drill sergeants to "… Put them all on an island and let them butt fuck each other to death." If that was against what you believed, you just shut up and took it.  It was not a place for discourse, and if it bothered you, you just learned to let it slide.  In the end, giving you a thicker skin was their mission. Your worth there was what you where capable of doing, and I respected that. In the end I learned a great deal from basic, about myself. I have never been a physically, in shape guy, and those little tasks seemed insurmountable to me. I learned all of those things where based on how you perceived things. Once, on our 20-mile road march, I twisted both my ankles while carrying the M60 machine gun… It wasn’t about the pain anymore though. It was about not giving up… and that is what I learned from basic training. It’s all a matter of perspective. On my graduation day, when I earned my blue chord and discs which where what only the infantry where allowed to wear on their uniform, I felt 30 feet tall. One of my friends had the honour of going to the house of pain, and he told me that they where cutting the standards down drastically on the next cycle, and opening it to women as well… He said the drill sergeants where now going to call it The house of pancakes (pronounced Pain – cakes).
When I came back, the ROTC did not want me there. I didn’t have the credit hours in school enough to complete the program in 2 years… Although several cadets existed that where in the same boat, yet still in the system. So I was on hold. They let me in the next year, but they kicked me out on a paperwork error after I failed a diagnostic PT test, but I was invited to try again. Fuck that… I got stuck with a 6-year guard contract, with no GI bill, no sign up bonus… just my ass, and a small paycheck every month.
My mechanized infantry company was a mixed bag. A combination of highly motivated soldiers, to lazy NCO’s that preferred to hide in the woods, get drunk, and show up for final formation. Most of the excellent soldiers there where self-starters, and in themselves a clique. After all, the rest of the unit was every National Guard stereotype made true. The thing that surprised me about the clique that I hung around with had a morbid fascination with WWII… Especially Nazi Germany, and the Schutzstaffel. Not the politics mind you, but the innovation of these organizations. They pretty much invented mechanized warfare, and set the standard for a modern army… Mainly Blitzkrieg. They emulated the SS to a certain point, and it was common for us to jokingly refer to some of the lieutenants as Ubersturmfuhrer or Obersturmfuhrer… The German army equivalent. That is where it ended though… A good soldier was a good soldier no matter what they looked like. So don’t get yourself to believe that they where a sort of KKK type organization, because that would be far from the truth. It caught me off guard merely because anything vaguely connected to the Nazis is incredibly taboo. Over time, most of these soldiers left the guard, changed units, or where promoted to another unit… At the end of my rotation, very few of the original, exceptional soldiers where left. It was mostly those lazy NCO’s, getting drunk, barking orders, and hiding when it was time to do any serious work. In the end, the command structure dissolved completely, and we where left to mill around on the half understood orders of Battalion commanders who where disconnected from their soldiers, and wanting to look good to the politicians rather than improve their forces. Morale was destroyed, and when my time came up, I jumped at the chance to leave. When I put on my uniform now, I felt like a maggot… A parasite who fed off the taxpayers to stand around and wait for the uninspired orders and mindless bravado of higher up. I was ashamed.

The craziest thing I ever saw in Japan

Time: late Saturday night.
Music:  Stone Temple Pilots... Big bang baby

One of the craziest things I ever seen when I was in Japan, was a few months after I had arrived and I was living in the Flower mansion in Goi.  

I have called the place we were living in as a dorm, but it was really a bunch of 2LDK (2 bedrooms, a living room, dinette and a kitchen) manshons.  (I spell it in the Japanese way, just to emphasize that a manshon is a larger apartment, and not a millionaire’s estate).  Anyways, NOVA had a deal with this particular Manshon and bought a lot of rooms which they stuffed 3 people in.  This meant that there were neighbors who were just regular Japanese people.  They really did not interact with us at all and as a general rule, and we knew very little about the majority of people that lived there.  There were only two apartments that we really took note of.  One room on the bottom floor occupied by a high class “working girl” and one room that housed a Yakuza and his wife.  How did we know he was Yakuza?  Well, we didn’t exactly…  What we did know was that he operated the Mah-Jong and roulette parlor next door and that he beat the shit out of his wife from time to time.  The girls that lived next to him tried to talk to the police, but from what I understand, they just took the report and never really followed up on it.  How did we know he ran the gambling den next door?  They left the windows open and they were maybe 20 feet away from my window.

On Sunday nights, a huge group of us regularly went out for karaoke.  It was about 500 yen an hour, and there was free alcohol, so it was an awesome deal, but that night my sinuses were really bothering me.  All the cigarette smoke after being in there for 2+ hours would have killed me, so I stayed home and read while the rest of the gaijin population emptied out.  After a few hours, I heard about 2 loud pops, and froze.  I could have sworn that was gunfire… Was it gunfire?  Really?  In Japan?  No way… I guess some of my neighbors were still in the building shooting fireworks in the hallways.  It’s the kind of crazy post-college shit that is famous with English instructors in Japan.  I then heard 5 more pops in rapid succession…  There was no doubt in my mind now.  Someone was shooting.  So I did one of the dumbest things I have ever done.  I ran to the balcony and hung my chest off of it.  I was sure it was from the snack bar 100 meters down the road to my right, but when I looked, I saw nothing.  I looked to the left and I saw 2 chinpira get into a black Mercedes…  Living in Goi, which was overflowing with chinpira, you get to know what the Yakuza look like.  They stuffed their pistols back into their jackets, got in the back of the car, and peeled off. And there in front of the parlor, was a robed man on the ground, crawling on his stomach.  I watched him for a second and thought maybe he was just a drunkard they were screwing with, but I doubted it…  I started to see blood start saturating his robe from 3 floors up.

chimpira are young punks that look between these yakuza...

... and these bozu-zoku...  Basically thugs trying to get into organized crime.


I started banging on the door of a new roommate’s door; A 6’4” Canadian guy who had just arrived in Japan a couple weeks prior.  We had another really loud and annoying British roomie that wasn’t there, so the Canadian took to wearing earplugs.  “Wake up man!  Someone outside got shot!  Lets see if we can help!”  He jumped out of bed and followed me downstairs with his new cell phone (He was very proud of that little phone).  Once we arrived, I recognized him as the Yakuza guy from upstairs.  His wife was there too, weeping and trying to stop the bleeding with towels, looking at us with a pleading look as her husband started to turn grey; as most of his blood was on the pavement or in the towels.  A crowd had gathered silently to watch this guy’s life slip away.  He was dead, and there was nothing I could do to bring him back.  He was too far gone and I really didn’t want my fingerprints on a crime scene.  My room mate was holding his cell phone in front of some old woman who just stared at him in slack jawed, wonder as he said loudly “Call the PO-LICE… you know… woooo wooo wooo!”  I count that moment, of a giant Canadian making police siren noises to an old woman, while standing over a dead body, one of the weirdest experiences of my life.

About 15 minutes later (the police station was a 5 minute walk by the way), the police showed up and roped the area off.  I called up one of my Japanese friends, and asked if she could translate for me to the police office.  She had to sneak away from a party to translate for me, and when I apologized about it, she told me not to worry about it.  It was really interesting and became a talking point for her at the party.  I then called one of the others at the karaoke bar and told them to stay there for a while.  It wouldn’t be a good idea for a bunch of drunk foreigners to come tripping over a crime scene.  

That night, I watched the crime scene investigation from my kitchen window.  I think they did everything to corrupt the crime scene.  They touched bullet casings with their bare hands, and let it rain on the scene for a good 15 minutes before covering it up.  Later the paper would read that the owner of a restaurant was found shot to death outside his restaurant.  I think I saw someone eating a sandwich while gambling once…

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

The first time... Not what you think....

Well.  It seems now the Nerima placement is out of the picture.  The time frame I was given was a little unrealistic.  It would mean immigrating while my parents are away on vacation.  I can just picture the note “Dear mom, I fed the cat and left for Japan… Love you…” I would probably get cat shit for my Christmas present too.  In a well wrapped box too.  Instead, they said they are pretty sure they could assign me to Tokyo if I come in mid August.   
Outside of Goi station
I kind of like that idea because of its symmetry.  10 years ago in August 2001 is when I arrived in Japan the first time with NOVA.  I lived in what was pretty much a dormitory for NOVA instructors called Flower Mansion.  It was actually an apartment building with a lot of rooms rented out by NOVA where they would cram 3 instructors into a 2 bedroom apartment.  My assigned roommate came and got me at Chiba station and took me to the apartment in Goi.
View from my first apartment on the first day I was there.

 He took me around and introduced me to everyone, and in each room I had a drink of beer or Chuhai.  After that, he took me to a rather tiny Gaijin bar called “The Phoenix” where everything was 500 yen, where they gave me a welcome to Japan tequila sunrise.  Yeah… I got pretty smashed my first day.  I woke up on the floor in my new room and had no idea where I was.  10 years ago August… I like the symmetry.  I wonder exactly how symmetrical it will be.
The Phoenix bar... Yeah... thats all of it.  I was infront of the TV.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

WTF?!?

As it stands right now, I am waiting for my Certificate of Eligibility to arrive from Japan.  Once that arrives, then I will take a day off of work and drive to Atlanta to turn it into a visa.  I sent my job prospect in Japan a copy of it, and I figured it would take them a while to find something, but last night around 3am... Boom! They say they have an opening in Nerima, Tokyo.  I have never been there in my five years in Japan, so I think that would be an awesome opportunity.  Problem is they want me there next week.  That means I have to move while my family is away on a cruise, and I have less than 2 weeks notice for my work.  My job has been really good to me and very understanding, and I have a big problem with leaving so suddenly.  I really hope I can get in at Nerima, as it is a perfect location for me, although my wife and I will probably live somewhere else, as I imagine Nerima to be very expensive.

So its Nerima... possibly?  Maybe? Hopefully?


  By the way... I see a BLDY...  If I remember right that is a 3000yen nomihodai...  woot!

Old Apartment

Here is an image of my old apartment in Chiba, circa 2006.  It was pretty small, but it was close to a lot with a convenience store right across the street. 
The place itself is a horrendous mess, as I was in the process of cleaning and packing.  It is about what anyone can expect when moving into a place.  I was having some allergies, since it was May.  So if you go to Japan and you have hayfever...  best of luck.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Random images

Here are just some random things I taped in Japan. The first being from Shibuya in Tokyo.  The first thing that got me is the immediate overwhelming of your senses.

The next image is from Ueno park, looking down the road to Akihabara.


What is the point of that?  Just testing it out.

And here is where it all started

Since this is the first post, I guess its appropriate to ask; Why even do this? The answer? Why not? So here I go and I will start with one of the most difficult questions someone can ask of me: “Where is your hometown?” That’s hard for me because I am highly nomadic. I was born in Flint, Michigan, but I don’t remember it at all. My first memories were actually in Kalamazoo, Michigan where we lived until 1979. From there we moved to Naperville, Illinois until 1983. After that we moved to Charlotte, North Carolina until 1989. Charlotte was hands down, the best era of my life until much later, and I still remember it very fondly. 1988 was the best! From there we moved to Moorpark, California until 1994… It was actually 1992 for me since I went away to college at Northern Michigan University, where I studied oil painting. I had one hell of a time there, and I really had a college experience there. In 1994 we moved to Columbia, South Carolina where I transferred schools and took courses at USC. I say took courses for a reason, as I never connected with USC at all; Not like I connected with NMU. That was the last of my family moves. I moved several times to several apartments, and I lived in Chiba, Japan from 2001 to 2006. While in Japan, I got married and moved back to South Carolina. Now, I stand on the edge of immigrating back to Japan.


So now, where do I consider my hometown? Ishpeming, Michigan! What the hell right? This is because throughout every move I made, it was a stable and almost literally, an unchanging place for me. So its not technically a hometown, but more of a hinge. It is, on those frozen shores of Lake Superior, where my soul rests.
Now I am about to begin “a new act” in my life, so why not just log it down. So what is its theme? Nothing in particular, but probably a lot about Japan and whatever else is on my mind.