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.

Rabble-rousing Rabbits

I found this li'l nugget of sculptural joy as I was prancing through Harajuku. It disturbs me in ways that I care not to mention.

I don't know what it is, nor from whence it came, but I intend to get to the bottom of this wee mystery - with your help!

Feel free to write me our furry friend's vital statistics, such as:

Name
Birthplace
Likes / Dislikes
Hit Points
THACO (for those who know)
Dreams / Aspirations
And anything else you like!

Impossible is nothing - with your help, anything is possible!

Tokyo Grift

This is my crew. I'm sorry to report to all of my friends that you've been replaced. Not just replaced, but forgotten and deleted from my mental address book.

This is my new posse.

On the weekends, we dress like mutants in mascara and hang out on bridges and in dark, Gothic alleyways, waiting for our Great Overlord Comrade Satan J. Cutiepants to bless us with his teen angst-ridden presence.

Sometimes we pose for your admiring pictures, but you'll find that our eyes gleam red in the camera lens of mortal folk. Hissss!

I'm still in training and hold the post of Whipping Boy First Order, so I'm not featured in this photo, but they tell me that in 5 to 6 years that I too can become an official member.

This isn't so much goodbye, but more of a good riddance. You shan't be hearing from me again, as I'm on the way to become a horrific Darksun Angel of the 8th Order of Hell.

Quoth the Colin, "Nevermore, bitches."

Hired Help

You know as well as I do that it's too hard to find good hired help these days. You just can't let anyone into your home like you could back when people gave a hoot about family values, what with British Nanny Syndrome, Mad Cow Disease and Immigrants.


Luckily, I seem to have found someone who promises to make my humble home that much nicer! Say hello to the newest addition to the family. She told me her name, which made absolutely no sense, so let's call her Lola.

I found Lola on a street corner in Akihabara's Electric Town and I just don't know what I'd do without her. Never has my apartment (think walk-in closet sized) been so lemony fresh. Don't we all wish we had a Lola in our lives?

If so, let me know. I'm willing to sublet.

Those Wacky Japanese

A short few mornings ago, I was standing in front of my building enjoying the sun before the humidity made my underarms smell like a Turkish bazaar. As I stood there, I saw an older gentleman in full business attire, complete with briefcase, ambling in my direction - a common sight at this time of day.

As he approached, it sounded like he grunted some kind of greeting, so I bowed deeply and said good morning in my most Japanese-sounding Japanese. I figured I'd made a new friend; perhaps we'd share a drink that evening, a dinner at a ritzy eatery and then sail to Guam with his family and wealthy business associates. The possibilities were endless.

He stopped in front of me and, much to my surprise, did not seem to be the fancy dinner-sharing, yacht-inviting man I had envisioned. He raised his arms in imitation of holding a rifle and pointed said "air rifle" in my direction. Not knowing what to make of this development, I figured that he simply wanted to scare off some thug lurking behind me. Just like my friendship dreams, however, this fantasy shattered as he carefully aimed the barrel of his arm gun at center body mass, pulled his trigger finger twice and grunted with each shot fired.

And, as if nothing had happened, he strolled off muttering to himself in a most disturbing fashion.

I recognized that I'd been violated by this salaryman assassin in some horrific way, but I struggled to reason exactly how or why. Perhaps he didn't like my tie, perhaps he hated my apartment building, perhaps some member of his family had been deposited in the dumpster behind me. From all I know of the Japanese and their universal love of foreigners, it couldn't possibly have been because I was white (dashingly handsome) and red haired. No way - not possible.

It must have been my tie.

A Sumonami

I've titled this artistic Tour de France "3 Sumos and a Taxi," in loose reference to that classic 1987 Tom Selleck, Steve Guttenburg and Ted Danson comedy of a similar name. Three sumos and a taxi, however are far less comical. For starters, how is the
driver supposed to feel? He could have driven a dozen pianos worth of
elephants across the Serengeti with less damage to his suspension. In this tense sumo / taxi standoff, the driver actually argued with these fleshbeasts over the fare - one of the first things you learn in cabbie college is to never, never argue with a sumo over such petty things as cash or honor.

Another point of interest, all three sumos emerged from the backseat. How was it decided that the middle sumo rode bitch? Did they have an adhoc sumo battle at the taxi stand to determine who got window? And as they were on their way to an important sumo tournament, does this unnecessarily wear out their lumpy sumo legs?

Almost everything about the above, entirely true, scenario defies the laws of physics and the U.N.

Sir Isaac Newton and Captain Kofi Anon must be rolling in their graves.

My Bestest Friends

In Tokyo "The Land of Happy Happy Fun Joy,"
these men are my best of friends. We go out after work and enjoy a
drink or two, or, in their case, twenty or ninety. They are nice guys
and want to be your best friend too. They told me to tell you that they
would like to travel to your country, meet your attractive female
relatives and share a traditional your-country dinner of raw squid and
sea urchin. Please welcome them into the fold and make them feel at
home. We're all good people at heart!

The Empire Strikes Back

Midway through an afternoon of Tokyo drifiting, I came across this li'l Pearl, Harbored, in Hibiya Park. Believe it or not: Oktoberfest, Japanese style.

It quickly dawned upon me that the German-Japanese alliance had risen anew, threatening the world of the free and our treasured freedoms once again.

I personally charge you, Sir Tom Brokaw, to rally your Greatest Generation for one last battle against the Axis forces! Summon forth the fiesty, fun-loving spirits of Roosevelt, Churchill and Comrade Stalin to combat this new evil!

Tally ho!

Crabenstein

As I said before, Tokyo is swamped with beasts battleworthy
of Godzilla's radioactive awesomeness, such as this fearsome
crustacean. Notice his deadly pincers thrust out in a "come and get me"
pose reminiscent of the large crab "Crab Daddy McCrabenworth" in the final battle of Bloodsport 8: Jean Claude vs. The Great Barrier Reef. Yikes!

A New Hope

Ahoy there mateys!

Last night I watched the classic film, Jason and the Arggganauts, which is argggguably one of the greatest movies of all time.

Why am I writing like a drunken pirate, you ask? Well, good question.

It's probably because I live in Japan, an island in the Pacific, and a region once widely known for its spooky, fanged pirates who roamed the Pacific rim searching for booty and doubloons. What they found, however, was a series of devastating tsunamis and massive volcanic eruptions, (haha) which fairly well ended the Era of Pirates, what historians now call the 1980's.

Except for Hong Kong, of course; you can still buy your mother's spleen on a major thoroughfare after Sunday brunch.

But enough about pirates, because seriously, arrgggggn't you getting tired of that topic? I am.

This blog will begin today and continue through the future, which I happen to know a lot about because I live 13 hours in the future. Whatever you do, don't buy Enron - you'll be very sorry. You can thank me later for the hot stock tip.

On my digital soapbox, I will be discussing the intricacies of life in Japan and keep you up to date on how many monster-sized insects and crustaceans you can find in Tokyo. I kid you not - these giant beasts adorn train stations and shop fronts everywhere, presumably in case of Godzilla's return.

I hope you will keep up with my wacky misadventures working 45 hours a week (spoken in a monster-truck rally announcers voice) and having (cue voice again) little time to go out or have wacky misadventures.

I know I'm sold, so why don't you come on in, sit a spell and share in the laughter and delight, like so many small children at their first X-rated film.....