opinios

I work with some really nice teachers.

They are friendly, jovial and have a good rapport with the teachers. Even the principal is Mr Smiley. In fact, especially the principal: he walks around beaming a big grin from ear to ear and is always super chatty (maybe because he doesn't have to do any work and just delegates everything to the vice principal!)

The thing is, I remember when I was in primary school in Australia, our school principal was a mean, grumpy, intimidating old man. He scared the bejeezus out of me.

And this meant that the teachers had a fall-back plan for when one of the kids acted up in class. If you were talking at the back of the room, or being a smart-arse, the teacher would threaten to send you to the principal's office.

Now that was one place you did not want to go.

I remember being hauled in there with a group of four other boys when I was in second grade. A teacher had seen us spitting on the school yard. I almost shat my pants and was whimpering like a friggin cissy. You see, I was scared out of my wits (not least because of the big cane that the principal was wielding and intimidating us with.)

It was a system of discipline that worked. The teacher had something to threaten the kids with.

In Japan, there is nothing. One of my kids the other day threw a piece of chalk to/at me from the back of the room and it shattered on the floor. Another stuck some clothes pegs to the dress of his teacher when she wasn't looking. And once I saw one of the nastier of my second year boys being Mr Cool Guy and staring up a girl's dress while paying her compliments while she was sitting on the stairs, not sure whether to feel flattered or disgusted. If talking in class is the only misdemeanour for the day then it has been a successful lesson (even if it was all the way through a listening test!)

And teachers have nothing to fall back on.

The kids know that they can get away with whatever they like, because they think "Or else what? You're going to send me to the principal's office??

In this country that would almost be a reward, so it doesn't happen.

Ok, I take back that rubbish I wrote a while ago about not being sucked in to mass marketing.

Kim suggested that I look into those little PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) organiser thingies for my birthday this year, so I have been scouting around the different models on display at Tokyo's electronic stores.

The range is enormous, and so are some of the price tags.

My buddy Nick swears by his Sony Clie, which has a decent sized screen and a full keyboard while still not being too clunky to be portable. Of course there are dozens of different models within the Clie range, with some having faster processors or more memory for power business users, others having remote controls for when you use it as an MP3 player, and others sporting digital cameras with resolutions that rival some of the lower-end cameras on the market.

The thing that continued to swirl through my head while I played with these expensive toys in the store was, will I ever use it???

Sure, it's cool to be able to upload images back and forth from this device to your computer (there are even Bluetooth wireless options), it might be fun to show off to other people how you can watch a video in the palm of your hand (although a memory stick big enough to hold a decent sized movie will set you back the cost of the unit again!) and being able to write notes to myself on the touch-screen might mean I don't lose information that tends to go walkabout when I scribble it down on the touch screen.

But what if I drop the damn thing? Do I really need it? Will it really make my life easier or happier?

In the midst of the blaring jingles, flashing lights and screaming voice-overs advertising this and that, I realised I was actually beginning to feel depressed. Just looking at all these gadgets around me was making me dizzy with desire, as I started trying to justify to myself why I should get the most expensive model. I felt the sudden urge to do something that made me feel happy.

I needed to... run.

It's easy to forget that doing things that get neglected when you are caught up in the hustle and bustle of a big city is really important. Running as fast as you possibly can until you are full out of breath; randomly strumming a guitar; sitting down with a good book and losing yourself in another world; good food, good wine, a good movie, good company - when I'm feeling restless, these are the things that make me happy. Not some gadget.

So, what should I get for my birthday? Do I need anything? Do we ever really need anything in such affluent times? I have a wealthy life with an abundance of love and good health and friendship and safety and challenges and rewards. This I pondered as I broke into a sprint.

By the time I had run all the way home, I'd forgotten what the question was.

The Japanese Proficiency Exam results came out today.

Ok, so I did devote every waking moment for an entire year of my life to studying for the damn thing. And I did fork out loads of cash on an electronic dictionary, flash cards, grammar text books and past exams to give myself the best possible chance at passing it. I managed to convince the principal at my school to let me go early on Friday afternoons so that I could very diligently attend Japanese class with my wonderful teacher, Yamada sensei, every week. And yes, it is true that I actually took an entire week of annual leave leading up to the exam to spend 10 hour stints sitting at the local family diner cramming characters and vocab and grammar structures and quirky nuances of the language into my head (warning: this is not conducive to good health).

But for what? A shitty little piece of paper?

No, I didn't pass the stupid exam. I got 55% overall so I was close to the 60% pass mark, but not close enough. As I predicted, I passed the writing and listening sections no worries, but the reading stung me - mainly because I just ran out of time.

So yes, I'm a tad disappointed. I think the fact that instead of writing 'Attempt Unsuccessful' or 'An Insufficient Score Was Achieved', they use the word FAILED just to really rub it in.

But I tell you what, I would have been even more disappointed to have put that much time and effort into the friggin' thing, only to get my certificate sent in the post on such a cheap-arse amateurish looks-like-it-was-printed-on-a-secondhand-inkjet printer-in-some-loser's-garage piece of paper. Now that would have been a real let-down.

What do you mean, I sound bitter???

Congratulations to those who did pass, whatever level you took (that means you Kinki!!).

I'd like to think that I am not normally one to be swayed by mass media as much as the rest of the pack.

This might be naive, but I generally do have a cynical view of most forms of advertising that I am surrounded by. I look at billboards critically, analyse magazines down to the formulaic sex-appeal photos that draw people in, and commend clever packaging. I'd like to think that I am able to appreciate good design without being sucked in to buy the product on offer.

But bookstores! Bookstores take me away.

I was given some vouchers redeemable at any book store as payment for that ridiculous "morals education" seminar thing last week, and spent hours today in Junkudo (the massive 9-level complex in Ikebukuro) today, just marvelling at everything on offer.

One of the problems of being someone who is interested in so many diverse things is that I am tempted to buy books about each and every one of them. I picked up how-to manuals for Photoshop and Macromedia Flash (they were even in English!) then put them down to be inspired by some graphic design annuals, then nosied through the pages of various contemporary Japanese fiction writers. I marvelled at some black and white photography masterpieces, then tossed and turned over whether I should splurge on a couple more bass guitar books or this must-have study book for learners of Japanese.

Unfortunately when it comes down to it, I can get excited by pretty much anything. Some people find this refreshing and others find it frustrating (usually myself). But there's no question about it: a well-written book, something that is tangible, with crisp new pages and a beautiful coloured cover can take one to another world far more than the rearranging of pixels on a screen.

What was that I was trying to say in my anti-consumerism cartoon? Gulp.

Well, I got through the child discipline seminar alive. Boy was that fun.

I was a member of the "expert" panel, sitting at the front of a room of about 40 elementary school parents. There was a Nepalese woman who ran a restaurant, a Ukraine girl who was an exchange student, and me. What were we experts in? At being gaijins (foreigners) of course!

So it was that for two hours we were grilled (all in Japanese, of course) about the differences that exist between Japan and our respective countries in the way that children are brought up, disciplined, moulded and educated (what do you mean you didn't know that was my specialty?) That's right, two hours. We even had a microphone to talk into. And naturally, the Japanese level of the other two was pera pera (fluent).

So there I was, stumbling my way through, barely making myself understood. Trying to make jokes but not possessing adequate language skills such that my contorted mumblings drew polite but confused smiles instead of raucous laughter. A question would get fielded to the panel, the other two would prattle on in perfect Japanese for about 10 minutes, and then I would umm and aah and struggle to pretend that I had a point before handing the mike over back as quickly as possible.

Did I mention that the hall we were sitting in was freezing?

Somehow I managed to get through this arduous ordeal without looking at my watch every 5 minutes, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, I failed to take into consideration Japanese hospitality customs.

Yes, in the principal's office afterwards, out came the coffee. For everyone. Black, with cream on the side, as always. Just like I never have it. With a seventy-year old man telling jokes that everyone was laughing at.

Forty-five minutes later I decided I couldn't take it anymore and rudely interrupted to excuse myself. This was bullshit. I wasn't even getting paid. Of course, the immediate response was to inquire why I couldn't stay any longer. I explained that Kim had dislocated her knee, that she needed me at home because she couldn't walk properly and thus struggled to walk to the grocery store to do the shopping. I didn't want to have to play the sympathy card, but jeez, I didn't expect to have to justify myself!

Of course, at the station, the dear little old lady who originally roped me into this insisted I let her buy me a bento for the road. She just didn't understand.

Let me go!

I am currently halfway through reading Yukio Mishima's Runaway Horses, the second in the tetraology by this seminal Japanese author. Reading it has definitely given me new insight into the Japanese take on suicide.

The public perception of the act of taking one's own life is viewed completely differently in this country compared to the west.

In Australia, it is most often depression that leads people to end their own life. A person's life feels meaningless, there seems to be no point in continuing in such helpless conditions, and they decide to end it all to end the sorrow. If it occurs as a result of some scandal, the act is often viewed as a cowardly way to avoid dealing with the situation at hand, an easy way out. A way to avoid taking responsibility for your actions.

In Japan, however, even today it is often viewed as a noble thing to do - the ultimate way to take responsibility for something shameful that you have done. These CEOs and government officials who get away with dodgy stuff for years and hang themselves when they are eventually uncovered: in their eyes, they are not taking the easy way out. They are doing what they think is the only way for them to leave this world with any last shred of respect. They believe that it is expected of them.

Rooted in this mindset are the dozens of characters in Mishima's book who commit seppuku - ritual disembowelment. But their suicides are not because of their dishonorable actions; the act of knifing oneself in the stomach, then the throat, often brings them joy, happiness and contentment that their life has been worth living. To die beneath a rising sun, up on a mountain ridge overlooking a beautiful green valley on a clear day, is the dream of the book's young protagonist, desired even more than being killed in battle defending the emperor.

Or is this just the justification that today's disgraced businessmen use to end their life in a way that avoids being shamed?

I dunno. I'm too busy living.

This cartoon was partly inspired by the ridiculous levels that I see people letting themselves get caught up in materialistic pursuits, partly by an article I read in The Australian (which reads a little too much like an Myer ad but is still worth a read), and partly just that good old-fashioned play on words that I love exploring...

Must get around to reading Growth Fetish, Clive Hamilton's book on Australia's escalating consumerism.

I have loved living in Japan. It's been a real dream come true after studying the language in high school, hosting some exchange students and developing a taste for the country and its culture. I love Australia too, but I never thought I would reach a point where I just absolutely HAD to go home. I thought that my leaving Japan would be a reluctant parting, one of those things that I know I would have to do eventually but never really wanted to.

Well, no more. I am so over it.

The stress and complications of living in another foreign country has really gotten to me in the past few days and I'm ready to go home. Two and a half years is more than enough. It seems like every little hurdle is compounding to make everything seem insurmountable, and it just puts me in a bad mood. For those who know me well, you will know that it takes quite a bit to get me riled.

Kim's knee of course isn't helping matters. The poor thing, she has put up with 4 weeks of pain and restricted movement now. This has been incredibly frustrating for her, but what is worse is the feeling of helplessness when you don't really know if the doctor understands the situation. He's an osteopath, so his specialty is bones, not muscles. But how can we be sure he knows what he is doing? We can't. We just trust him and trust there is no miscommunication in the broken half-Japanese/half-English dialogue that we have with him.

But then there's all the other bullshit. Favours and obligations. The other day I promised to help out a friend who was good to us when we arrived in Japan by teaching what I thought was an elementary school English class. As it turns out, the audience is a room full of elementary school TEACHERS, the topic is "the difference between child-raising and discipline in Japan and other countries", it goes for 2 hours, and it's all in Japanese. And I don't even know if they are paying me for it or not. And, I'm taking a day's annual leave to be there, after teaching ANOTHER school class that morning on the other side of Tokyo to help another friend out (at least I am getting paid for that one, but it's still on my day off and it's hardly lucrative!) How the hell did I get roped into this? When I suggested that this friggin' child discipline seminar might be a bit beyond me, the response was "Oh we've already sent out the brochures about you, so I'm afraid it's too late". How? How does it happen?

It just compounds. The teacher I taught with today can't plan two minutes ahead in her schedule, let alone decide what we should teach for a class in two day's time. The teachers' room at my regular elementary school doubles as the smoko room, and I always leave there snorting and coughing up dust and smoke. My apartment is smaller than the living room of the last place I lived at in Melbourne. I got jabbed in the balls on the train this morning by my own bag as the crowds were so bad. I haven't had an outdoor BBQ or been camping for over 3 years now (no that hut in Tanzawa doesn't count). Not that I could eat beef without being worried about catching mad cow disease or chicken without being worried about catching avian flu. All my friends and family are having babies (almost without exception) and I won't be there. And the strong Aussie dollar is making all this less and less worthwhile.

Really, I'm not normally one to be negative. The thing is, I think I just really wanna go home.

No, this aint spam.

You know those email ads you get all the time. In between the messages about the big black cocks and the tight pussies and the viagra. They read something like:

Get paid to surf the internet! Click here to find out more...

And if you can ever be bothered to follow the link there is some hyped crap about an online casino, or some complex ad-clicking scheme which involves referring as many people as possible, with a guaranteed 0.0000013 cents per referral!

Well, folks, I have found it. The true "get paid to surf the internet" gig. And I'm writing this blog while I'm doing it.

Tonight I was supposed to be substituting for a teacher who is away on holiday. The lessons they teach are over the phone - students who don't have time to attend face-to-face classes ring up and the lesson is a role-play conducted over the telephone. The student reads their part, teacher reads theirs. Teacher provides feedback on pronunciation, intonation and other tips. Says goodbye, good luck with the study, and hangs up.

Well that's what supposed to happen. But the phone hasn't rung yet. I've been here for 2 and a half hours and not a single call. The clock is ticking. And I'm getting paid for every second.

Let's see, I've checked my mail. I've updated my blog. I've read all the newspapers online. Now, what else can I do. Oh yes, it's my birthday coming up. Better update my amazon wish list!