Because I may Dream of Butterflies


Being fluent in Japanese does not require speaking the language. Learn all about it in the newest article - My Inept Proficiency. If you can be bothered, that is.

Miniature landscapes call for miniature updates


A miniature landscape representing mount Fuji at Suizenji Park, Kumamoto

Excellent Simpsons quote from an episode I just watched: "I'm a rageoholic! I just can't live without rageohol!"

Incidentally, check out my latest article. It isn't funny, but then again nothing else around here is anyway - besides my head, perhaps.

Of Embers and Sand





I just came back from Miyazaki today, after a weekend of fun and frolics at the beach. I left for Kagoshima on Saturday with a few acquaintances and arrived to the beautiful (for Japan, that is) Akune beach -a popular place among young people, surfers and families, and one of the few beaches in the country that has escped being walled up in concrete for no reason ("Ah, what a beautiful place. Quick! Let's bulldoze it and cover it up in cement!"). I later came to realise, of course, that the place is not so popular with families and young people as it is popular with /some/ families and certain breeds of young people. A tacky ramshackle structure stands at the entrance with floaters in the shape of animals for rent and the despicable whirring of jetski motors faded behind a speaker blaring awful pop music made the place look like a cheaper version of your most horrible seaside town prejudices. Only that there was no town. Or waves, for that matter. I am still debating whether I unwittingly went to a lake instead.

However, I decided to take it all at face value with a smile and had fun regardless. I was even lured into riding a "sea biscuit" (aka "the Raping Arse-Punisher"), a strange floating contraption pulled at high speeds by a jetski, in a fashion similar to water skiing, but sitting down. The speed and the pressure are such that one's arse is sucked into the sitting hole while angry splashes of trapped water pound it with the might of ten thousand sledgehammers. Like an irritated 200lb Russian masseuse wearing a clown suit, it was as amusing as it was painful. I can see the adverts
already -"Try our Sea Biscuit: the fun game that will make you want to scream!"

In the afternoon the people I was with went back to Kumamoto, and I decided to take a train to Kagoshima city. I spent most of my time there getting caned on top of a concrete structure at the port facing Sakurajima (an active volcano forever looming across the water in a sort of ominous final countdown), watching a firework show and eating pizza. I sat there doing nothing in particular, thinking strange thoughts while I waited for my friend, who was scheduled to arrive later that evening. Hours later, after meeting up with him, we went out exploring the nightlife of Kagoshima.

Kagoshima -or Satsuma, as it was known in times past- is both the the heart of an old and powerful fiefdom and the historical birthplace of the famous Satsuma rebellion that took place in the late 1800s. As would be expected, the place is littered with graves and even a "monument to great men" (I jest you not, this is the official name) for the thousands upon thousands that have died at some time or other in Satsuma. Now, I don't know if it is the lingering feelings of inevitable doom waiting patiently behind the toxic fumes of Sakurajima or the anxious fear of yet another rebellion ravaging their homeland, but the people of Kagoshima have either not been reproducing with the same zest of other Japanese cities or they have become too scared to leave their houses. Whatever the reasons might be, I have only one thing to say: I have seen livelier funerals and mass sepulcres.

With my eensy weed stash at an end, whate else could we do but get very pissed at a random bar nearby? Luckily the barman liked us and let us stay there drinking for free all night as long as we entertained his customers by speaking English and, well, being gaijins; it was a good choice of place too -there were almost five people in there!

The next day, after suffering from a throbbing hangover and venturing into a waveless beach on the other side of Kyushu we decided to go to Miyazaki instead, prompted by a dude at a surf shop. Down in Miyazaki I met lots of new people and managed to do some surfing (if it can be called that - "falling over pathetically and almost knocking myself unconscious with the board" might be more appropriate). We camped on the beach. Adam made a bonfire while I created a tent out of driftwood and plastic to shelter us from the rain that night. Of course it didn't work and we still got soaked, but it was fun pretending that it would nonetheless.

I'm out of witty comments and sarcastic remarks so I'll edit this later.

Trigger Happy


The sun shining behind the trees at Taburazaka.

The Photo Gallery is now available. By all means, mosey on over.

Isn't it Unfortunate, Don't You Think?

If you are a young twenty-something who has just lost the chip on his shoulder, the first two things that may pop to mind when asked to remember the mid-1990s are angst and thick flannel shirts. Musically speaking, it was an age marked by Dr. Marten's and Seattle garage bands, lyrics littered with excess-fuelled faux depression and bad poetry. Or perhaps you were a victim to the incessant whining of Britpop melodies and clean guitar riffs peppered with prozac. The 1990s was the decade angst became a consumer commodity.

Slowly, as the years went by, like a creeping spider on a heroin-stained wall, we began to see a lot of the accumulated pessimism switch sides on the gender scale. Coupling with a hateful breed of 'girl power’ mentality, it would later spiral catastrophically to create an angry slew of self-righteous femiangst singers. It wasn’t long until we were surrounded by an entourage of fair maidens strumming to 'outrageous' and 'honest' lyrics, all of them charged with the spite of ten thousand scorned Medeas.

Between these women, the name Alanis Morrisette springs up faster than a psychiatrist's recliner. Her tawdry ballads of unlove hit a nerve with the millions of teenage girls who, up to that point, had not found a proper outlet for their crushed dreams of romantic crash and burn. What is more, it is thanks to Alanis that a whole generation of young people do not understand the real meaning of the word "ironic", as wrongly evoked in her catchy yet most unfortunate song of the same name.

You might be wondering where I’m going with all this. You see, be it irony, opposition of terms or just sheer bad luck, I cannot help but imagine the recent events in my life would make perfect fodder for an Alanis Morrisette song. I fell off the stairs at work and, well, you can imagine. A big cast, a swollen left foot, ruined holidays, the whole caboodle ensued. Not only that, but the cruel Morrisette-branded irony resides in that the fracture was a product of my own attempts to watch out for my right foot, which had been stupidly stung by a mukade centipede the day before. So, on Friday I was confronted with two sadistic choices of movement: either on a painful, swollen black foot or on an itchy, swollen red foot. The tragicomedy was priceless. A bit like your local priest telling you that Jesus actually hates you.

Fortunately my itchy foot has almost returned to its normal dainty size by now, after a weekend of bouncing up and down on crutches and riding the occasional wheelchair. And since my other foot is broken, the company has lent me the company car to use whenever I want. How could I let such an opportunity pass?

A new world of unseen vistas waits out there. Besides, no matter how remote, how backward or how desolate an area might seem in Japan, there are always hidden things to amaze and confuse the unwary, usually taking the form of a temple here, some ruins there, or a Pachinko parlour a bit further up the road. The possibilities are endless.

The Japanese countryside –what is left of it, at least- is daubed with a distinctive kind of beauty. The rolling landscape of the Aso range looms impassive under picture-perfect clouds, their moving shadows cast on brightly coloured mountainsides. It is then when Japan shapeshifts into a beautiful Irish meadow, conjuring deep green from every corner. Moments later the illusion is replaced by that of a lush Patagonian island, its low hills marred by forests and wind. A glimpse of England. The shade of towering cornstalks and scarcely placed buildings become a suburban desert in the North American south. If you look closely enough, myriad destinies lurk beneath the verdant hinterland of Japan.

But the nostalgia only lasts for a second. If you look closely again, you begin thinking that Irish hills are lower and that the light here is too intense. You remember the grave hues of Patagonia are different, deeper, not as bright. The English prairies vanish. In between the cornstalks you start wondering how narrow and winding the roads are, how well marked everything is -and all in Japanese, too.

The truth is that American, Irish, English, Chilean or whatnot, there is always something else flickering, candlelike, in the background. It is the rural chaos amidst urban order. It is the cruel savagery of intensely apologetic drivers. It is a rain cloud in the shape of an Ukiyoe girl, or an inviting but impenetrable bamboo forest. A landscape so alienating and contradictory, yet so alluring at the same time.

And here I am, faced by contradictions of my own. I finally have a car to go wherever I want, yet I cannot go. I am forced to stare passively from the other side of the windshield, my faithful crutches keeping me company on the passenger's seat. The scenery winks coquettishly, luring me in like a hungry Siren whose appetite lasts only until the end of the road; soon after, the landscape becomes a zealous guard who straightens an arm and rudely orders me to halt. I cannot tread on the woodland beyond, and I cannot climb the inviting rocks behind the trees. I can never know the inner secrets of the forest. Tachiiri kinshi. "How Japanese," I cackle to myself with resignation.

But life goes on, and the landscape soon forgets that someday I will walk again. Only then, just when its doors have been opened, the mountains will remain stoical, unreachable in the background, calling from afar like a damsel in distress, ready to offer her voluptuous graces as a prize. Alanis Morrisette would definitely call it ironic. I just call it unfortunate.

And so I sigh and pour myself another cup of insipid green tea.

Heart of Darkness aka The Beauty and the Beast


Beautiful. Just beautiful. My heart warms.

It's hot today. It's been hot for days now. And it's all downhill from now on -the rainy season starts officially this week and nature, as though mocking human weathermonging arrogance, has been lashing at us by sending forth hordes of humidity and stifling heat. And yet it is but a small taste of what is to come, or so it has been repeatedly advertised to me by more than one anxious-looking Nihonjin. As I write, the mighty whoosh of my newly-bought fan gales against my face at full blast. I have reason to believe that this scenario will be repeating itself pretty often.

A smoky erection at Honmyouji. 

SETTING SAIL FOR DAI NIPPON

Here I am, a few days before my departure to the eastern side of Nanjing. Monday will witness the rouse of my three-day journey; in honesty, I'm not so nervous about the event as I am expectant of it -perhaps a tacit acknowledgement of the fact that in less than a half a week life as I have become used to will shift into a different course once more. Still, I cannot help but grin like a madman on designer drugs as I write. I am going back to Japan in less than four days! :-))

OF FARMYARD ANIMALS AND GROSSLY ENLARGED FURRY APPENDAGES

Welcome to the insane world of Japanese TV ads, where nothing is as it seems or even remotely makes sense! This advert is a CM for an engineering/contracting firm, by the way.

What can I say, Japanese humour is twisted and scantily approachable by the untrained eye. There is order in chaos, however, and sooner or later -though almost definitely later- it makes sense somehow...well, at least some of it does. But alas, it's funnier if it doesn't, right?

WHERE HARD AND CHEESE COLLIDE

Finally, an update!

I went to an "alternative" club the other night that played all kinds of music, from punk to thrash metal to 80s to I-Love-Ibiza. It was hilarious! Imagine pierced and tattooed mohawked punks clad in chains and spikes moshing in the pit, then the music changes and suddenly the punks are now bopping to Whitney Houston and Huey Louie and the News. Ffunny stuff.

HEAD, BOY!

Today there were student council (senior man, headboy, big kahuna) elections at the school I work in. It seems that the past elections had been "rigged" somehow and everyone was making a huge fuss about it. No one really cared about these things when I was a student -was it maybe that perhaps my generation was just too cynical to give a flying fuck?

The school tries to make it look like such a terrific honour to be elected headboy, when in reality they know it's much more of a burden instead. Let the kids wince to this self-induced stupidity once they realise about the various mindnumbing jobs they'll get (like having to say a speech for every school event, from graduation to teacher's day) plus dealing with the petty complaints of their peers everyday after they win! What a treat! Sign me up!

Still, I guess it's mostly the popularity contest nature of these things what interests the students, which is why they do it in the first place. Later on they will come to realise that they were wrong to think that there is nothing cooler than being an administrative toy during one's final year of highschool.

Teenagers can be so naive sometimes.

Join the MF Forums compadres, now up and ready to use! (No registration required...I think).

It's cold and gloomy today...

THOUGHTS OF AUTUMN

"Today the world is paved of brown, leaves are down, pawing ground for morning heat. Eves are keen, trees and green that lose their vim with fleeting boasts that ebb away; flowers fly as shying days dawn ruddy nights through springs in May."

Don't Just Do It!

As I was going to work today, a street singer got on the bus to perform a few songs in exchange for charity. If like me you live in Santiago, you would know that this is a fairly common occurrence. In fact, it is quite rare to ride the bus and not be confronted by some sort of peddling artist during one’s journey. They usually take the form of singers, musicians and –distressingly enough-, clowns. These performers will usually do their thing first and later ask for money in return from the people in the bus who, at least theoretically, are not obliged to pay them (though some misguided souls too often think otherwise, thus shamelessly breaking out in backhanded insults when the collection round has been poor). But I digress.

Click here to read the full article.

The Oscars 2004

Stars, fashion, glamour and harrowing human tragedy. See it all as MF Digest visits the Oscars!

To the teenagers wailing outside my window until 5AM last night: I would have gone over to complain if you hadn't been so many and armed with sharp knives. Utinam logica falsa tuam philosophiam totam suffodiant!

On the bright side, I get to flounder about clumsily while looking like a dishevelled zombie during work hours. Thank you, random street gang.

Feel like taking a catnap? Check out my review for Something's Gotta Give, one of the most soporific films I've seen in quite a while.

I don't know why I'd never thought of creating a blog before. Now I can rant away to my heart's content instead of going through the painstaking task of creating a webpage or clogging my friends' inboxes with cold and detached bulk mails. Even though they're all the craze right now and all the cool kids are doing it -please note that I am writing this as I skydive shirtless while sipping on my MTV-sponsored light beer- it has come to my attention that there are some unwelcome elements (probably communists) who refuse to acknowledge the greatness of personal weblogs and scoff at them much like a diehard Lord of the Rings fan would to the uneven portrayal of some obscure element from the books that didn't quite make it to the film version. We call these people "crazy", and check them into mental institutions to give them electroshock therapy for fun. Sometimes we also kick them really hard in the groin and laugh maniacally while licking our blood-stained knives in an act of scornful derision, secretly fearing that perhaps both victim and victimiser are somehow more alike than the latter would care to admit.

The beauty of the internet resides in allowing a varied range of stoners and bellends alike to post highly inane, utterly silly and frankly rather sick articles about nothing in particular just for the sake of it. Whether these articles will be read fully or not is of little importance if only we acknowledge the all-embracing, awesome power of The Internerd (tm) seeping through our lives, taking possession of that puerile illusion we like to call our "free-time". In fact, by now many of you will have probably spent ungodly amounts of valuable idling minutes at home -or better still, allegedly productive minutes at the office- reading useless articles and time-wasting rants like the one you are presently engaged in. On that note, welcome!


*(If you didn't feel welcome for any particular reason, just hit back on your browser and click again on the link that led you here. Lather, rinse, repeat. I promise that at some stage you, too, will feel the magic).

This blog prides itself in being really 'wacky', 'down with it' and 'dope', more often than not resorting to lame jokes and bad writing, which in turn result in upset readers, happy gay multicoloured-titles and angst-ridden freeform poetry. Of course, I am always striving to do my best in order to avoid unfortunate situations, as long as 'my best' means 'absolutely nothing' (past failed efforts include piranhas, Buddha's resurrection and the War on Iraq). Also, I would like to apologise in advance for any mental anguish caused by the inaptitude of my writing, as living under bridges and feasting on dead rats for so long has rendered me a tad sociopathic.

Enjoy.