Glassie Come Home

I was waiting for the bus the other day and took off my glasses so I could see my phone. Normally I can hold both in my left hand. Unfortunately, I had my bus card in my right hand and that proved to be too many things for me to keep track of at once. I thought I tucked my glasses into my pocket, but when I was seated on the bus and ready to put them back on, they were nowhere to be found.

I went through a clumsy phase years ago and kept bending my frames by walking into walls and tripping over things and generally being an inept klutz. So I made the investment in unbreakable titanium frames and have had this pair a very long time indeed. It wasn’t the end of the world that they were gone, but we had spent some significant time together and I had grown fond of them.

It seemed a long shot, but we called the bus lost and found office the next day. They said, “We have a pair of gold rimmed glasses. We don’t know if they’re your gold rimmed glasses. You’ll have to come down and identify them.” I imagined a lineup of suspicious looking glasses standing awkwardly behind a sheet of one way glass.

Lo and behold, they were my gold rimmed glasses. I will never know if some kind soul turned them in or if the cleaning staff found them at the end of the day or if the goddess was just smiling on me again that day. At any rate we have been reunited and I am moved that someone somewhere respected me enough to turn in my glasses. I have renewed faith in humanity…except for Pokemon Go Zombies. They are invited to go jump in a lake.

monkey glasses

 

Trump That

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I saw a little girl, maybe four years old, go into nuclear meltdown today, screaming “Yada! Yada!” at the top of her lungs. (That doesn’t have an exact English translation. Let’s just say it means “No!”)

Her parents looked stressed out. I felt sympathy for a moment and then started giggling. I found it charming that the girl was young enough to still believe that if she yelled loud enough and long enough she could bend the world to her will and get what she wanted.

Remind you of anyone?

 

 

 

 

Me-ouse

Yes, I know. It’s been at least two blog posts since I mentioned the cats. Due to the many submissions to the bitter complaints department, I offer my profound apologies. Herein is an update on the feline invasion chez Mouse.

Grumpy Twitch

The matriarch of our little menagerie, Twitchy was whippet-thin and pointy when she first came to us, all skin and bones and well-toned muscle. This past winter, she often smelled of soy sauce. Now she smells like my grandmother’s afghan, warm and soft and knitted with 100% love. She recently swallowed a rugby ball, the only possible explanation for her current proportions. As you can see, she is ever-so-pleased about the new kitten and is making every effort to be warm and welcoming.

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Seemingly over night, Monkey Boy went from adorable puffball to elegant young man. When he and Little Man are not racing around seemingly ripping each other to bits, he drapes his shapely body over furniture, his eyes reflecting the wisdom of the centuries and his snow-white fur smelling of watermelon. While he still neither purrs nor meows, he does squeak. We have concluded that he must have swallowed a live mouse. A mouse in Tokyo. Oh, dear.

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Little Man is still looking for a name. In the meantime, we have determined that the size of his ears, eyes and paws can only be explained by the swallowing of a fox, a lemur and a couple of bear cubs. When I pick him up and bury my nose in his baby-soft fur, I feel his tiny ribs and pounding heart press against my open palm and a starburst of happiness explodes inside my belly. Then he twists and wiggles until he is released, impatient to discover what the future holds in store for him, or at least what might be hiding behind the curtain.

It’s funny how human cats can be. This morning, the boys were upstairs chasing each other and Twitchy started dancing around the kitchen, playing with a toy mouse. It’s as if she didn’t want them to know that she wanted to play, too. Many people think cats are standoffish and aloof, but I think they grasp the concept of cool. I’m down with that, as long as she doesn’t ask for a tattoo or a nose piercing.

Happy Cake

In this morning’s yoga class, there was only one other student, who turned out to be a tour guide, the type that accompanies Japanese tour groups when they go abroad. But, she said, she hasn’t been very busy lately because people are not traveling much outside of commonwealth countries like Australia, New Zealand and Canada. This is because there are too many terrorists in Europe and every American is armed to the teeth with automatic weapons and sub-machine guns.

Granted, many Japanese people are given to sweeping generalizations and melodramatic hyperbole but at the same time and for the first time in history, the governments of other countries are warning their nationals to avoid the States.

I told the other student and the teacher that not all of the States is a war zone and gun control is often a state-by-state issue. In fact, I told them, Hawaii has just recently passed some rather strict gun ownership regulations, thank goodness.

They seemed surprised that I felt that way. I was surprised at their surprise…and then deeply saddened.

So I came home and baked an orange cake because while warm cake might not solve anything, it makes things better, especially if it’s smiling.

I figure if cake can smile, I can, too.

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Honesty

When I went to Bali last year, I was once offered a beverage made up of Pineapple and Orange juices with coconut Water. Lets call it POW. It was heavenly. Until that time, I thought the little paper cup of guava juice I was given on an airplane was the best nectar of heaven to ever pass my lips. But guava is rather thick and sticky and can be cloying. POW is the delightful reward I get after morning yoga and a year later it has not cloyed even once.

The problem, though, is that in my car-free existence, it’s hard to carry such heavy liquids home. And coconut water is expensive. Enter Amazon. While the cost is about the same as the import store, delivery is free and doesn’t give me sore shoulders.

So we ordered a case of coconut water and it came. Then the next day another one came. So we wrote to the store and asked if they’d…um…made a mistake. They wrote back right away saying how much they appreciated our honesty and that we should keep the extra case at no cost.

Ah, Japan.

cocanut water

Rescue

My friend Randy hopped on his bicycle the other day to go do some shopping. He hadn’t gone far when he heard a “Meow!” and a splash. Looking toward some abandoned boats tied up at a dock, he saw a tiny kitten swimming toward shore. The kitten noticed Randy and swam toward where he was standing, which was at the top of a stone sea wall. When the kitten reached the wall, it started climbing up the barnacles growing there, but the barnacles only went up about two feet and when the kitten reached their end, he fell back into the water. But he was a persistent little tyke. He climbed the barnacles again and when he reached their end, he clung to them with both paws and his teeth.

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At last I understand the expression “tooth and nail”.

Randy called his wife, saying “Come quick and bring a rope!” But lovely Junko is a rather level-headed lady who quickly decided to borrow a net from a neighbor instead. And Randy used it to fish the little man out of the water.

boy in a net

Randy and Junko already have three rescue cats as well as a couple of strays that occasionally wander into their garden looking for treats. So they put this on Facebook.

be my mommy

We debated for a while. I thought the two-people-two-cats rule still applied but Rochi wanted him. In time he admitted he wanted the kitten for me. The thing is that neither Twitchy nor Monkey Boy particularly like me. They don’t not like me, they just don’t care about me much. I can pick them up for brief cuddles and Monkey likes to wrestle, but neither one will sit on my lap. I chose Twitchy from among hundreds of cats at the shelter, but she didn’t choose me. You can’t choose your cats any more than you can choose your parents. The funny thing is that I wasn’t all that unhappy about this situation. Losing Plato five years ago was one of the most painful things I’ve ever had to survive. He was my little boy. In a way, I was grateful that Twitchy and Monkey Boy are just cats, more interested in each other than in me.

Then it hit me that little man is a genuine rescue cat. We call Twitchy a rescue cat because a volunteer group found her living alone in an abandoned house inside the no-go area in Fukushima, but she didn’t see herself as being rescued. For the longest time she looked at us as if to say, “What do you want from me? Why am I here? I was doing just fine on my own drinking dirty rain water and eating worms and frogs and baby birds.” Eventually, she came to see the virtues of a full food bowl that didn’t involve gills or feathers. She never even tries to escape anymore; instead she watches the world go about its business from the safe vantage of a window sill.

So we call Twitchy a rescue cat, but in a way she isn’t. Little man is, a genuine full-blooded rescue cat who wanted to be rescued. We’ve only had him for a day but he’s already one of the sweetest little fuzz muffins I’ve ever met. I’m having to type at an awkward angle because he doesn’t want to be more than six inches away from me. Maybe having a scrape with death gave him an appreciation of life. At any rate, he looks at me with love and gratitude and it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that, in that pure, clean way that only an animal can. I feel the love starting to flow and I weep with gratitude. Perhaps he will rescue me back.

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Yoga Cat

Passing the Time Popcorn Style

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I had to go renew my driver’s license yesterday. This takes place in a dreary Quonset hut tucked behind the local police station. You pay your money, take your eye test, have a photo taken and then sit through a lecture and video. I was sitting there waiting for the lecture to start when a man came into the room. “Sterner-san, I turned on the English sub-titles so you should sit up front where you can see them.”

(Grrr. I can see them from here; I just passed my eye test, you know. And you could have called less attention to me by dumping a bucket of confetti over my head.)

But I’m a good little citizen, so I gathered my stuff and moved forward. Then the lecture began with, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen and thank you for waiting. I put in the English video because we have a foreigner here today, but don’t worry. The words are the same as the Japanese narration, so just ignore them.”

(OK, make that two buckets of confetti with a rousing backup chorus of off-key kazoos. The kind part of me figured the man had one of the most mind-numbingly boring jobs in the universe and had to get his kicks somewhere. The not-so-kind part of me wanted to do unspeakable things to his danglers.)

Then he started to drone along about traffic statistics and such. The rest of the captive audience pretended to listen. I folded my hands in my lap, closed my eyes and visualized him as a popcorn machine happily pinging away in the lobby of an old fashioned movie house. The people’s voices coming from beyond the partition were other patrons waiting for the movie to start, but when it did we were all disappointed. It provided vital information like that we must always wear seat belts and drive slowly around children, especially when it’s raining, and mustn’t forget to stop at stop signs.

OK, I’ll try to remember all that.

There was one cool part, though, a demonstration of what happens when a car slams into a wall. At 50kph, the front end of the car crumples and the crash dummies inside it get whiplash. At 130kph, the front end crumples, the car raises its rear into the air and the whole vehicle does an elegant back flip, landing on its roof. There was no word on the fate of the crash dummies, but I fear the worst.

So, I now have a shiny new driver’s license which I will probably never use. I know that I should never drive the car I don’t own into a wall at 130kph. I will ALWAYS make sure my crash dummies wear their seat belts.

I was also reminded that a solid dose of boredom helps me appreciate the sunnier aspects of my life, of which there are many, and I continue to be grateful for that.

Oh, and a little popcorn goes a long way.

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What Price Freedom

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When I went to Bali last year, my travel buddy was Barry, a retired doctor and kindly gentleman, since we were the only singletons in the group. We got along well.

Fast forward a year and Barry and a couple of his friends are touring Japan. Barry asked us to join them for dinner. We did, and they were lovely people. We had a most enjoyable evening, but one part of our conversation really jolted me. I haven’t been able to shake that feeling.

They said that the travel company which had organized their tour had also put together twenty other such Japan tours because the demand for them had multiplied exponentially.

Why?

People are afraid of other places. Nobody feels safe going to Europe or Africa anymore. To be honest, they said, being in Japan was a relief because they live in Memphis, Tennessee, which is second only to Detroit for its gun violence. And I don’t mean the horrific psychosis that happened in Orlando. I mean day to day violence, bloodshed and murder, seemingly random, a specter that trails you every time you work up the nerve to leave your home. They said not an evening goes by when there isn’t a report of injury or death by gunshots on the news.

I had forgotten how common that type of news is in the States. On the other hand, I said laughing, just that same day the TV people had been reporting the discovery of a dismembered body in a pond not far from my house. Everyone stared at me, slightly aghast. “Oh, it’s not funny! Of course not. I’m laughing because it’s so strange. That kind of violence just doesn’t happen here.”

As all of them went on and on about how they’d fallen in love with Japan and couldn’t wait to come back, I inwardly rolled my eyes. But then I realized that I feel safe. All the time. I’m much more likely to be annoyed than threatened when I go out. I don’t lock my doors or windows. I’ve never even been groped. It suddenly dawned on me how complacent I’ve become, how I take for granted that nobody is going to shoot me for my political views or the contents of my wallet or just for looking at them sideways. I can move through my life with the comfort of not ever thinking about where I can or cannot go or what I can or cannot do.

Yes, Japan is wonderful, but it’s certainly no Shangri-la.

Or is it? Sure, it’s expensive, but what price can you put on freedom?

Some Days

Some days just hum along minding their own business and making very little difference to my general outlook and attitude. Other days I feel like a human yo-yo and need to make plus and minus columns just to get a vague understanding of what karma is throwing at me. Today was one of those days.

It started off well enough. I did a short morning wake-up yoga class followed by a rather pleasant meditation where I joyfully hit the zen zone a couple of times. Nice.

Then I discovered a message from a friend saying let’s have lunch tomorrow. The thing is, Messenger tells you what time the message came in but not what day, so I thought it arrived at 7:11 last evening when in fact it had arrived at 7:11 this morning while I was still dancing with the dream fairies. So I thought tomorrow was today but it turned out that today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow. When I arrived in Shibuya there was, of course, nobody there. Well, no. That’s not quite right. There were gazillions of people there, but none of them were waiting for me.

I felt a bit foolish, but decided to make the best of it. I’d been hungry for pizza for a while and there isn’t any good pizza in my neighborhood. Both Pizza Hut and Dominoes have deteriorated so badly that I’d rather eat the box. The Japanese pizza places are almost as bad but in a different way; they put things like corn and potato and curry sauce on their pizza. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal in many parts of the world.

So there is a place in Shibuya, kind of a long walk in the wrong direction, but it has nearly authentic New York pizza sold with attitude by the slice and they even have pink lemonade. I indulged and, feeling better, I made the long trek back to Shibuya to go to a specialty shop I’d been meaning to visit. Of course, they’re closed on Wednesdays.

Big sigh.

I’d also been wanting to look for some orange essential oil. Unfortunately, I dread shopping even more than going to the dentist. But I decided to suck it up and forced myself into some twee shops selling scented soaps and body gels and myriad other goops and glops that I would never use in a thousand years even if the Easter Bunny left free samples on my doorstep. In fact, I found lots of orange oil but the prices were staggering. Literally. With one shop lady hovering over my shoulder, I looked at a price tag and nearly fell over.

Not wanting to know what further shocks the Goddess might have in mind for me, I bought some ponytail holders, tucked my tail between my legs and scurried for home.

As a thank you gift for my costume work, the cast of Big River gave me a charming sketch of Huck and Jim.

Huck and Jim

For some reason, the sketch really speaks to me. I feel like some days I am a little white boy with a sassy attitude; other days I am a big black man with a heart of gold. Metaphorically, of course. Some days I am up; other days I am down. Some days I am up and down. Some days. Other days. Days flowing together as the Big River that is my life.

The Restaurant from Hell

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In the nearly six years I’ve lived in this neighborhood, I’ve been to this second floor restaurant three times. Each time it has been reincarnated: different name, somewhat different menu, slightly different decor. Each time it has been horrible. In my wide-eyed innocence, I keep expecting it to improve. I tried it once when we first moved to this neighborhood. I don’t remember what was so horrible, only that I kept reminding myself not to return. But two years ago, it changed hands and I blithely tried it again. I wrote about it at the time. Don’t read this if you have a weak stomach: Burger Blues

Not long ago, it transformed into a steak house.I donned my rose-colored glasses and climbed the stairs. I should have turned tail and fled when the water glass was made of plastic.

water glass

The steak arrived on a sputtering cast iron pan, a good start, I innocently thought. I took a bite. It was rubbery, half raw, served on a bed of bean sprouts, flanked by a tiny pile of humiliated canned corn, and accompanied by a plate of plain, sticky, white rice. Don’t get me wrong–sprouts are really tasty that way, and Japanese rice is delicious, but steak is meant to be served with potatoes. End of story. I left the restaurant full but with that half empty feeling you get when you know what you want but don’t get it.

Lessons learned:

  1. Even after nearly 30 years of living in Japan, I still have a Western bias about certain things.
  2. If I want authentic Western food, I have to make it myself.
  3. That building is cursed. Perhaps the bodies of innocent children are buried in its foundation or its constructed on an ancient Ainu burial ground. Whatever the reason, the universe clearly dislikes the property and it should be avoided.
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