Xzhibit J

The bags are packed, the apartment is clean and it's time to leave this fine country that many scholars consider to be Japan. And I'd like to think I left it a little better than when I found it.

If in doubt, please refer to Xzhibit J

You see, Americo-Japanese relations were severely strained in 19"ought"41. You could almost say they were at an all time low.

But, that was then and this is now. Today, we're all about the healing.

Dr. Phil insists time doesn't heal wounds; according to his unique Midwest corn-fed wisdom, communication and trust are the most important relationship-building factors.

This is where I come in.

As an envoy of the Greater American "Funpire", I've been entrusted with rekindling our Pacific-gapped friendship, by any means necessary. Via diplomatic string-pulling, late night meetings, negotiation sessions, in-depth research, a host of other exhausting endeavours, and I might say no little danger to my person, I believe that I've completed my mission.

Our two nations may still need time: the U.S. is legendarily slow about texting and Japan isn't big on Sunday-morning cuddles, but I think we've all learned something here today. I think we're all a little closer to mending our differences, and I'd like to think I played my part.

Just look at the above picture. I'm on top of it.

Trust me.

The Yakuza

Do you see what happens? Do you see what happens when you mess with me?

You get this: the yakuza, a.k.a 8-9-3, a.k.a the fearsome Japanese organized crime network.

And we are not pleasant people to cross kitanas with.

Upon my return home, I fully expect certain friends and family to physically challange me, taking full advantage of my delirious jet-lagged state.

Try it. Just try it.

Japan's most fearsome crime warriors will be unleashed upon you and yours.

You will find yourself in a state of extreme pain, capital city YOU, with no return visa.

Seriously. Try me.

The Curious Incident of the Mosquito in the Night-Time

Like most freedom-loving people, I sleep. Not an inordinate amount, mind you, but enough to let myself function without looking like a zombie on his way to stroke number five.

Last night, I was trying to accomplish just this, when about 2 in the morning, I was woken by a high-pitched "eeeeeeeeeeeee," dancing about my ear. I tried to ignore it and roll over but this needle-nosed denizen of the night persisted, reminding me with it's wee banshee's call that it was busy chugging my blood, blood located specifically near my eardrums.

Every time I was on the brink, the very cusp, of getting back to recharge mode, it's anti-sleep system kicked in and sent it directly back to my ear. I pleaded with her to stop, but she knew no mercy. Our conversation unfolded about like this:

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee." (mosquito)
"Please, please, for the love of God, leave me alone." (Colin)
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
"Eeeeeeeeeee yourself you blood-sucking bastard child."
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

It was a bit like negotiating with North Korea or an Alabaman.

For an hour and a half I let this dance of doomed sleep go unchecked. About 3:00 in the morning, I had enough.
I threw on the light and let my myopic eyes adjust to the harsh glare. I searched with a ferocity unusal for this time of the morning before I found the night harpy resting it's bloated insect form on the book near my head.

My eyes focused on its tiny evil form, lazing about contentedly after having super-sized its recent order of O+.

My name is Brutal Revenge.

Slowly, painstakingly, I moved my hand closer in, practically shaking with anger and anticipation. Easy now, Colin, don't blow this.

Then, with the speed of a meth-whacked bobcat, I struck the book with my palm and hoped for the best. As I drew my hand away, I saw that the cover of my yellow hardback was smeared with blood, my hard-earned blood, and its little, fragile body was crushed into tiny bits all over my hand.

In a savage act of victory, I smeared my blood about the front of the book, taking great delight in drowning the remaining pieces of my offender in my own red juice. Psychologists of war may call these sick forms of celebration "combat stress reactions" and "war crimes, but I didn't give a damn about the consequences. The moment was mine and I could finally get some rest after a vicious night campaign and wanton bloodshed.

I checked the clock (3:30) shut off the light, rolled over and allowed my self a moment of satisfaction before shutting my eyes. Sweet Morpheus, god of sleep, cradle me in your arms.

And then, like a bad kung-fu flick where the antagonists attack one at a time:

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

Apparently my victim had friends, powerful, whining, blood-sucking friends. I couldn't let this happen. Not tonight, not on my watch.

I vowed to crush these guerrilla mosquito forces and their Tet-like offensives into my inner sanctuary. It was time to show these bastards who wears the boxers in this apartment. Let's get it on.

And I wont say that I lost, I wont say that I rose two hours earlier than is my norm, I wont say I'm on my second cup of coffee before sunrise, all I'll say is that I really, really enjoy working on my computer at 5 a.m.

Bastards.

Like Japanese toilets or Japanese children, Japanese pigeons are self-sufficient and advanced. Unlike our American pigeons, Japanese pigeons fend for themselves and are just fine without your help, thank you very much.

So don't let me catch you feeding the pigeons in Tokyo. That would be setting back pigeon evolution by depressing their homing instincts and turning them into dirty scavenging air rats instead of the beautiful and rare specimens that they so clearly are.

Slugtastic

There comes a time in every young man's life when he must ask himself an important question: what is a mono slug?

Is it a singular slug mechanical device, perhaps less desirable than the dual-slug or quad-slug model? Is it a slug that has contracted mono?

In Spanish, mono means "monkey," and so perhaps a mono slug is in actuality a fearsome jungle Monkey Slug predator that very slowly overcomes it's much faster, more intelligent and better-looking prey. Slurping a long at speeds upwards of 2 miles per decade, this "Mono" Slug will occasionally and accidentally overcome some sort of food that happens to be sleeping in it's gooey path. Count me out of any forthcoming jungle holidays. Yikes!

If you have any better ideas on the what a mono slug might be, I would be grateful for some help on this sticky matter.

High-Q

Look at Tokyo.
Tokyo, go go go go
This is Tokyo

I recently achieved this vista from the 45th floor of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Offices, a dual-tower monstrosity best known for it's 45th floor gift shop called "Crank Trunk."

Though my subconscious debated the statistical likelihood of an earthquake while I was stranded at 202 meters, I wasn't so much struck by how small or insignificant I was, but rather how small and insignificant everyone else was. I was literally 202 meters 5 feet 8/1/2 inches tall and I felt a bit like Godzilla on a stool or Paul Bunyan with heels.

My head spun with the city's staggering immensity and I began to feel feverish and slightly omnipotent; I was both the protagonist and the author of this wee novella we call Tokyo. It was as if I could see into the future and then beyond, into some sort of neo-future where clever orphans and chimney sweeps rule the world with tattered, sooty fists.

It was time to go.

Thank goodness the elevator worked both ways and my ego deflated to normal height at ground level. Even to scale, however, I'm still taller than 80% of those around me.

Boo-yeah J-NBA, here comes trouble!

Jet Frag

Last week I was having an enlightening conversation with my students about popular Japanese tourist destinations when it came to my attention that Hawaii is a favorite location to spend their meager free time.

I innocently asked them how long it took to fly to Hawaii, not realizing the can of worms that I was preparing to shotgun. Almost as soon as the question flew from my mouth, it dawned on me the implications of said travel time.

The students looked at each other and claimed they had no clue how long the trip would take.

LIARS! LIARS!

Of course you know how long that flight takes. Does Dec. 7th, 1941 register on your radar? It certainly didn't on ours, but that's no excuse for pretending that your country doesn't know exactly how long it takes to reach our most prime of Pacific real estate.

Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo certainly had a good idea of the timing and I somehow doubt the secret went to the grave with him.

My dear Americans, I'll get to the bottom of this worrying situation, rest assured.

And please take note that nowhere in this e-mail have I made a direct reference to what we all know I'm referencing, and in the name of political correctness and modern day "allies," I'll keep it this way.

Pearl Harbor.