Glibertarians.com 2017 Archive

Author: straffinrun

  • 5 Minute Japanese Lesson

    米軍ヘリの窓、校庭落下

    That is the headline from an article in the Yomiuri newspaper, December 14, 2017. Let’s yank it apart and see what it says and learn a little Japanese in the process.

    [米] is the kanji (Chinese character) for “rice”. There are thousands and thousands of kanji and take years to learn, but we’ll focus only on the ones in the headline. [米] is pronounced kome when it appears as a solo kanji and bei when it appears in combination with another kanji. In our headline it is in tandem with [軍] , so it’s pronounced bei in this case. Another use of [米] is in the kanji set [米国], or beikoku, which means “America”. It’s actually a shortened form of the original name for “America” which is [亜米利加], or Amerika. Today, [米] is often used to indicate that something is American as in [米大統領] or “American president”.

    Unfortunately, they had to use kanji to produce the phonetic sounds of words because the heathens wouldn’t use the ABC’s. For example, if you pile up the train wreck of nonsensical kanji [府亜区御府酢零馬] you come up with a reading of, “Fuck off, Slaver”. Sometimes for fun I’ll write, [味噌歩荷] on a piece of paper and have a young lady read it aloud. “Mi so ho nee? I no understand.”

    [軍] is pronounced the same as the English word “goon” (written as gun) and means “army”. So when we put [米] and [軍] together we get beigun or “rice army” or “rice goon” or, more accurately, “American Military”.

    Your average Japanese schoolyard

    [ヘリ] is written in katakana. Katakana is a system of 46 simple characters that is used for transcriptions of foreign words, loan words etc. [へ] is read as he (which is pronounced like “head” without the “d” sound) and [リ] is ri as in “reeeeeeeee”. [ヘリ] gives us heri which is the shortened form of [ヘリ コプター] or herikoputaa. Helicopter. For example, [ピノチェトのヘリコプター欲しい！] which means, “I want Pinochet’s helicopter!”

    [の] is no, and don’t you forget it. This is from the final system of writing called hiragana. Same number of characters as katakana, 46, and, as with katakana, can produce all the sounds you need in Japanese. Hiragana is basically the glue that holds a sentence together as it’s used for verb endings, prepositions and so on. [の] functions the same as the possessive “s”. [米軍ヘリの …] means, “American military helicopter’s…”

    Let’s speed this up. [窓] is mado and means “window”. [校] is kou and means “school”. [庭] is tei (or niwa when appearing solo) and means “garden”. [校庭] therefore is koutei or “schoolyard”. [落] is raku (or ochiru when solo) and means “fall”. [下] is ka (or shita when solo) and means “down”. So we can read the entire headline as, “beigun heri no mado, koutei rakka”.

    And there we have it, “American Military Helicopter’s Window Falls on Schoolyard”. This happened in Okinawa and similar incidents have happened over the years. Fortunately, none of the elementary school’s students were injured, but if a fatal incident were to occur due to U.S. military actions, you’d probably hear cries of, “Get these rice goons out of our schoolyard!”

  • A Path To Wellness, Part One

    Chapter I

    He brushed aside the Pringle’s crumbs from his Adidas jumper, pulled the coffee table as close as his distended gut would allow. He would show that therapist that could treat himself. Pen in hand, he began to scribble on the complimentary notepad the facility had provided:
    “Sure, I like pussy. Sue me. People look at me like I just won the Oscar for Best Supporting Pervert, but why am I to be judged by losers? These girls come from across the globe, hauling around the only talent they have. Sucking a mogul’s cock. They want me to make them a star. Make them a shit load of cash. Make them famous. Yet, they don’t want to pay the price of admission. This isn’t a fucking charity.
    You may think this is immoral, but you aren’t an artist (and yes, I am an artist. I pay the motherfuckers). My cum is the lifeblood of this entire industry. My cum is the fertilizer that causes tremendous growth. You call me a degenerate, but you don’t understand. Call me “sick” if you want because I have no choice. I have this magic elixir inside of me and I have to let it loose on any living organism within arm’s reach.
    And that bitch, Hillary? I helped her get millions of women to pull the lever for her and she can’t overlook having a few pull mine? My jizz has created more stars than the big bang. I’ve put the wood in Hollywood and you motherfuckers judge me?”

    Something didn’t feel quite right to Harvey. He hurled the notepad at the wall. Something was wrong. There it is; his cock had been rock hard the entire time he’d been writing his manifesto. The Arizona sunset coupled with his pent-up rage had resulted in a purple, throbbing pecker. He got up, went into the bathroom and shed his clothes. The complimentary cotton robe beckoned him to slip into it. Perfect. It only circumnavigated three-quarters of his bulging gut.

    Semi-robed, Harvey peered out into the hallway. Where the hell was that Mexican maid? Panic washed over him as he realized he would be wasting his life-enhancing potion on the cotton robe. He burst into the hallway, pecker ramrod hard, searching for something alive to squirt into. “There! By the elevator!”. He ripped his robe off and ran toward the elevator. There was the fern he had eyed on his way to his room earlier in the day. As he rigorously pumped the juicy nectar from his shaft, he reached down to stroke the luscious plant. A giant howl of soul-crushing pain escaped Harvey’s mouth right as he shot his load. “Nooooooooo. Fucking plastic.”

     

    Chapter II

    There was no return address. Inside the brown package was a single videotape with a small note that read, “No plant was harmed in production”. Jared, the TMZ intern, was used to viewing bogus submissions from “leakers” and that evening he had already watched a fake Tom Cruise slaughtering a vegan on a Scientology altar, listened to an obviously edited recording of Lindsay Graham offering a female prostitute $200 for a rim job and seen a clutch of photos of Oprah shaving her lower Afro into a swastika. Now Jared was at the bottom of the stack and when this was done he could finally go back to his shit hole apartment in North Hollywood. The empty office at night made Jared nervous. OK. Last one. He popped in the tape.

    The video showed only snowy static for an obnoxiously long time. Jared peeled off the foil from the remaining half of his burrito from lunch. Taking a particularly large bite, the screen flickered and Jared could make out a hallway in what looked like a Holiday Inn. Surely this was security camera footage. There was a pair of elevators to the right and some Native American art hanging on the wall. Jared shifted in his chair and took another bite of his burrito. Security camera footage was excellent. It was the over-produced videos that were bullshit.
    After a minute or so, Jared spotted a head pop out from a door at the far end of the hallway. “What the hell is he looking for?” Jared whispered aloud as he scooped a large dollop of sour cream into his mouth. Leaning in close to his monitor, Jared’s jaw went slack and sour cream splattered onto his burrito. “Holy shit. Is that…?” The intern was unable to complete the sentence thanks to a bullet ripping into the back of his skull and coating the remains of his late night snack with gray matter.

    . . . .

    She tapped on his door lightly with her pinky knuckle. The security guard had been slid a hundred bucks to shut down the cameras for ten minutes, but she wore a scarf over her head and bug-eyed sunglasses just in case. She tapped again more insistently. Goddammit. She pressed her ear to the door and heard what sounded like a hairless cat being stuffed into a surgical glove. She couldn’t suppress the image in her mind; he was rolling around naked on the leather couch, pleasuring himself. Is this really worth three million dollars? “Fuck you, Harvey”, she yelled at the door, “I’m done. Don’t call me anymore.” She slid the tape through the mail slot in the door and heard the thud as it hit the floor. From the other side of the door came, “You *pant, pant* wanna come *pant, pant* in? Please. I’m sorry. Just *pant, pant* come in.”

    Lisa turned and hustled up the hallway, down the stairs and into the parking garage where her driver had the car idling. She hopped in the passenger seat and slammed the door with all her might. “It’s done. Let’s get the fuck out of here. I don’t know how you do this.” The Lexus squealed out of the parking garage and into the Arizona night. Lisa started sobbing into her hands as they cruised down the empty highway. The driver reached over and started stroking her hair, “You’ll be fine, honey. Mommy is here.” A small wad of sour cream pooled in the corner of Mommy’s mouth.

     

    Chapter III

    INT–LUXURY SUITE-THE MEADOWS—NIGHT

    The room is dark, illuminated only by the TV. HARVEY is sprawled on the velvet couch in front of the TV, his robe open, nothing underneath. He is sobbing and masturbating to the image on the screen. A pile of tissues on his lap, another to his right for the tears. The video on the screen is a security video of Harvey masturbating onto a plant.

    HARVEY
    Plastic, fucking plastic. Just like all those sluts. Made up to look perfect, then they call me a creep!?

    His motion grows faster. Tears roll down his cheek. Suddenly there is a noise. He stops masturbating, pauses the video and turns. Tears streaming down his face.

    HARVEY
    Who’s there? Huh, one of those paparazzi fucks?

    There is only silence. He un-pauses the video and resumes. A shadow emerges from the darkness behind him. The Emperor Palpatine-esque features of GEORGE’S face slowly emerge from the shadows. Harvey doesn’t notice him. George speaks in a thick Eastern European accent, pausing for deep breaths.

    GEORGE
    Have you learned your lesson, Harvey?

    Harvey TURNS startled, sobbing.

    HARVEY
    George, I wasn’t expecting…Here, have a seat.

    Harvey tries to wipe a cum stain off the cushion next to him.

    GEORGE
    No thank you, I vill stand.

    HARVEY
    George, ya gotta know, I never touched them broads…well some of them. But mostly I just wanted them to wa…

    GEORGE
    Zat is not the issue. You botched ze Vegas job. Hillary vanted Micheal to do it. He vould have gotten zat fuel tank to explode. Zat fucker loves explosions. But, I vas sure you could handle it.

    HARVEY
    I…I…It was under control, then that damn security guard wandered on set. I…

    GEORGE
    Shh…I’m not blaming you. But you understand. Ve needed something to get the media to focus…elsewhere. After ze facts didn’t, what’s the saying? Add up.

    HARVEY
    But come on, I done some good work for you!

    GEORGE
    Stop masturbating damnit! Zis is important.

    Harvey closes his robe in shame and wipes his hand on the couch.

    HARVEY
    Come on. It woulda worked. You just didn’t have enough patience.

    GEORGE

    (lashing out)
    No. It was sloppy!

    (Composes himself)

    Now I have to double my funding efforts. All it managed to accomplish is some bullshit on bump-stocks. Who the hell even knew vhat a bump-stock was!? No, this vas supposed to be the nail in ze coffin. And you fucked up!

    HARVEY (sobbing)
    Please. You already ruined my career!

    GEORGE
    Hush now, it is ok. Just remember, zis was a light punishment. It can get much vorse.

    Harvey breaks down, an emotional mess. George adjusts his impeccable suit and walks out the door.

    EXT—THE MEADOWS-NIGHT

    George exits the main entrance. George meets KIETH at the limo, Kieth is rubbing his leg with excitement.

    KIETH
    Tingles! Tingles!
    (TO GEORGE)
    So, what should I do with him?

    GEORGE
    Kill him.

    George enters the limo and it drives off. Keith walks to the front entrance, dragging his leg and rubbing it, he pulls out a silenced pistol and enters the building.

    CUT TO

    TED, who has been watching from the bushes, he stealthily approaches the building.

     

    Chapter IV

    INT–LUXURY SUITE-THE MEADOWS—NIGHT

    Harvey is still masturbating to the video footage. Sobbing like a child. He is startled by gunfire and explosions in the hall. The door to the suite is blown off its hinges and Ted emerges from the smoke, wearing his cowboy hat and a sleeveless shirt, holding his compound bow, a gun on his hip.

    TED
    Get yer fuckin dick out of your hand and get moving. This is a God Damn rescue!

    Harvey grabs a tissue to wipe the tears away. He realizes it was from the wrong pile.

    INT/EXT—TED’S TRUCK-HWY 60—NIGHT

    The pick-up screams down the highway, a pair of antlers mounted to the hood, a small doe in the bed. On the tailgate is a bumper sticker that reads “Never get on one knee for a girl who won’t get on two for you”. Harvey’s robe flaps in the breeze out the open window.

    HARVEY
    OK. So now what? Where the hell are we goin?

    TED
    Shit man, that’s up to you. Arizona ain’t exactly my bag. They elected John McCain for fuck sake.

    HARVEY
    What!? You ain’t got no fuckin’ plan?

    TED
    Well, shit. I can pull over and drop you off anytime you want. Good luck.

    HARVEY
    No…No…Ok…I can think of somthin’.

    TED
    And for love of God, put some damn pants on!

    Ted reaches behind him, grabs a pair of pants and throws them at Harvey who fumbles and wiggles his way into the pants. He tries to button them, but gets exhausted and gives up.

    Harvey pulls out his cellphone, taps on the screen and issues a command.

    HARVEY
    Turn left on Bell Road. After 8.4 miles, turn right into the parking lot.

    TED
    Where the fuck are we going.

    HARVEY
    It’s better if you don’t ask questions. Things are about to get…weird. By the way, thanks for believing I’m innocent.

    TED
    What!? Hell if I do. If there’s one thing Uncle Ted knows about it’s sex addiction. And you ain’t no sex addict. You’re just a fucking piece if shit.

    HARVEY
    So why did you rescue me?

    TED
    Got word, from an inside man, that this whole shitstorm is to cover up the Vegas shooting and the liberal plan to confiscate firearms from good ol Americans. And hell, Uncle Ted is always up for some adventure. But that don’t mean you ain’t a piece of shit.

    HARVEY
    Turn here!

    The truck careens across several lanes of traffic to make the turn, horns blare.

    EXT—CHUCK E. CHEESE PARKING LOT—NIGHT

    Ted’s truck jumps the curb entering the parking lot and slides to a halt in front of the front door. Ted gets out of the truck and stares at the building in bewilderment. He places his hand on his holstered gun.

    TED
    What the fuck!?

    HARVEY
    (EXITING TRUCK)
    Just, let me do the talking. I told you, shit is gonna get weird.

     

    Chapter V

    INT—CHUCK E. CHEESE—NIGHT

    Ted and Harvey enter the restaurant trying to look inconspicuous. Ted nervously pats the gun on his hip. Harvey’s robe catches on the velvet rope, he struggles and gets it free, just in time to stop his unbuttoned pants from falling down. They get their hands stamped by the attendant.

    HARVEY
    We didn’t bring no kids. We’re meeting some friends, for a birthday party.

    Ted nods nervously, an awkward grin on his face. The attendant gives a quizzical look and lets them through. The pair make their way through the restaurant, having to randomly dodge running children. The siren on an arcade game goes off and Harvey jumps, then he composes himself. They make their way to CHUCK E. CHEEZE (or the guy in the mascot outfit).

    HARVEY
    I’m a LOST BOY.

    CHUCK E. CHEESE
    Do you have a License To Drive?

    HARVEY
    No, but I can Dream A Little Dream.

    CHUCK E. CHEESE
    Ok, this way.

    Chuck E. Cheese motions to the back of the restaurant and heads that way. Ted and Harvey follow. Chuck E. Cheese leads them to a door marked ‘Management Only’, and opens it, motioning for them to enter.

    CHUCK E. CHEESE
    Go ahead.

    Ted and Harvey go through the door and it is shut behind them.

    INT—HALLWAY-CHUCK E.’S DEN—NIGHT

    Ted and Harvey walk down a dimly lit hallway lined with glass windows into rooms with red lights. A hostess leads them down the hall. Behind each window is a stereotype of a sexual proclivity; A man in a gimp mask, an Asian girl in a school uniform, a young boy crying, a sneering transvestite, a furry and so on. Ted looks on in disgust.

    TED
    What the fuck!?

    HARVEY
    Remember pizzagate?

    TED
    The guy who thought there was a child sex ring in a DC pizza shop?

    HARVEY
    Yeah. Wrong pizza shop, and so much more than child sex.

    Harvey stops to leer at one of the windows, then snaps back to the moment and continues down the hall.

    Harvey (CONT’D)
    People like me, we tend to travel. Whether we are in entertainment, news or government. We needed a… safe space, that was available anywhere we went.

    TED
    This is fucked up, even for me.

    Harvey stops suddenly and turns to Ted.

    HARVEY
    Right now, this is the only place to hide, so just fucking play cool!

    TED
    Whoa. Lead on Kemosabe. We got shit to take care of. I’ll deal with all of this later.

    Ted makes a clockwise pointing movement. They resume walking down the hall. The hostess opens a door and motions for them to enter.

    HOSTESS
    And what is your order?

    HARVEY
    What is vintage of the thirty-two tonight?

    HOSTESS
    Twenty-two year old Brazilian.

    HARVEY
    We’ll take that.

    INT—CHUCK E.’s DEN SUITE—NIGHT

    Harvey shuts the door, leans against it and slides to the floor. The suite is lit in a red light; small tables around the room are topped with buckets of ice with champagne nestled inside. Richard Cheese’s cover of NIN’s ‘CLOSER’ plays over the speaker system. Harvey begins to rub his groin.

    TED
    Fucking stop that!

    HARVEY
    Sorry, nervous tick.

    TED
    You mind explaining what the fuck is going on?

    Harvey jumps up to an accusatory stance.

    HARVEY
    No! Why don’t you tell me?! You’re the one who seems to know so much. Who is this ‘inside man’?

    TED
    We don’t have time for this horseshit!

    HARVEY (PARANOID)
    You seem to know too much! This feels like a sting!

    TED
    Listen, I’m just…

    Ted is interrupted when the door to the suite is flung open and a naked BRAZILIAN WOMAN is cast into the room as the door shuts behind her. She has a look of fear in her eyes, she notices one of the champagne bottles, lunges for it and smashes it to make a jagged weapon.

    BRAZILIAN WOMAN
    Não me toque os filhos da puta!

    TED
    Now calm down there honey; we ain’t lookin’ for trouble.

    They circle each other in a tense standoff.

    TED (CONT’D)
    What the fuck is goin’ on!?

    HARVEY
    It’s the number thirty-two I ordered.

    TED
    What?! This is all kinds of fucked up! Can you at least keep her quiet! I don’t wanna get found out.

    BRAZILIAN WOMAN
    Chegue um passo mais perto e vou cortar seus testicais!

    HARVEY
    Don’t worry, the suites are sound proof. But I had to order something, or they’d get suspicious. Just, hold on.
    (TO BRAZILIAN WOMAN)
    Eu sou famoso. Eu posso te fazer um emprego.

    The Brazilian woman calmy sets down the broken bottle and takes a seat.

    TED
    What the fuck did you say?

    HARVEY
    That I’m famous and I can get her work.

    Just then TED’S PHONE buzzes as a new call is coming in and it is on vibrate. He looks at the screen.

    TED
    Here are your answers. I’ll put it on speaker.
    (TO THE CALLER)
    Yellow. You got Ted.

    INSIDE MAN
    Did you, get the package?

    TED
    Yes, I did. Safe and sound.

    INSIDE MAN
    Good. I won’t make this long. We don’t know who’s listening.
    Meet at the rendezvous in 24 hours.

    TED
    Gotchya.

    The call ends.

    HARVEY
    What was that? That didn’t answer no damn questions! Listen I’m a very impor…

    Ted pulls his gun and fires a round into Harvey’s leg. The Brazilian woman smiles and claps.

    HARVEY
    You fuckin shot me! Why the fuck did you shoot me?!

    TED
    Cuz you’re a piece of shit. Now wrap that up and get some sleep. We got a long road ahead of us.

    Harvey rips a piece a piece of his dirty tattered robe and wraps his leg. Ted plops down on the plush bed and tilts.

     

    PART TWO

  • Intersectionality

    My friend told me about a new used car dealership that opened up in town over by the railroad tracks. The owner decided he’d revolutionize the used car industry by offering cars at their true  market value plus a 5% bump for overhead and salary. He’d make up for the lower margins with volume.

    Possibly the woman who was the inspiration for this story.

    I strolled into his lot and started kicking tires. A 2009 Honda Fit caught my eye. 17K miles and the body looked perfect. “Why don’t you take it for a spin?” the owner asked as he flipped me the keys. It had responsive steering, supple brakes and decent power for such a small engine. “We’ve checked around and this model with this mileage and condition goes for $7,200, so we’re offering it for $7,530.”

    I stood there thinking about it for a long while. I had only $7,100 to spend. Of course, I needed the car for work and my job was essential to put food on the table, so I knocked $200 off his price in my head. Being a woman, it was obvious that I could be raped walking around at night, so I sliced another $300 of the price. Really, how much would it cost society to deal with another rape? And, isn’t this owner part of the raping gender? Also, I’m nearing fifty years old, so I’ll need money for retirement. If I don’t have enough for my old age, I’ll be a burden on society. I knocked another $500 off his price. Raised by a single mother: $600. Genetically prone to obesity: $450. Lesbian experience in college: $150. Bad teeth, left handed, bad at math, more than five vowels in my last name. The numbers were flashing through my head like John Nash working on differential geometry.

    Finally, I had my answer. “I’ll take the car. According to my calculations, you owe me the car and $2,600.” As I listed my deductions, the left side of the dealer’s face started twitching. When I reeled off the last deduction, he reached out his shaking arm and handed me the title.

    . . .

    She pulled out of the dealership in the purple Honda Fit and turned up the song that came on the radio. She had loved Alanis Morissette ever since she had heard it playing in the background while eating out her college roommate. She looked in the rear view mirror and saw the dealer waving good bye, some pinkish liquid running down his forearm. She thrust her arm out the window and flipped him off. “Fuck your white patriarchy!” she yelled and stomped on the gas.

    . . .

    BAAAAAAAM! “Hey, Boss. What was that?” the young mechanic shouted from the Fiat he was under. “No problem, kid. Just means the train was on time.” He started wiping off the brake fluid on his arm, proud of himself for not mansplaining to the lady that brake lines were bad.

  • Honoring the Dead

     

    17 years ago I asked my future father in law for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Surprisingly or suspiciously, he quickly offered it up and then we spent the rest of the night drinking beer and sake. The next step was to introduce me to the relatives, so a family reunion was arranged at the grandmother’s farmhouse in Chiba. Aunts, uncles, and cousins came from Tokyo, Kyoto, and Shikoku to meet me, the goofy American that would soil their gene pool.

    Grandmother was a semi-retired rice farmer and had taken care of the farm ever since grandfather had died of a stroke some 30 years earlier. As we pulled into the dirt driveway, we saw her standing in the doorway, cane in hand and flashing us a smile that exposed two of her remaining three teeth. It was a large, traditional Japanese house with a small garden attached and a few persimmon trees on the western side. Mother quickly waddled from the car and gave grandmother a succession of quick bows. No hugging. This is Japan where you could go a decade as an adult and not even realize you haven’t touched either of your parents. Father gave a formal bow to his mother-in-law and my wife followed with the same. Of course, I did likewise, but to me the grandmother flashed a grin and chuckled slightly.

    Finally, all the relatives showed up and we had a dinner of hairy crab, shabu shabu, vegetables from the garden and beer from the liquor store. Lots of beer from the liquor store because father likes to drink on vacation. A little prodding about where I was from and my natto abilities by the relatives, but otherwise they treated me like a new member of the family. I only wish I had understood more than 8% of what they were telling me.

    Around nine o’clock grandmother was ready for bed. The uncles, aunts and cousins left to stay at a nearby hotel and mother and my wife went off to bed after taking a bath. Father, God bless him, stayed up drinking with me until 11pm before his head got wobbly. I helped father up and asked him where I was sleeping. Not being technically married yet meant that my wife and I couldn’t sleep in the same room even though we were living together in Tokyo. Grandmother’s house, grandmother’s rules. Father gathered his wits enough to make zero sense, so I had no idea what room to go to.

    I walked down the hallway and saw my luggage stacked neatly in front of a fusuma, so I slid it open to see if that was my room for the next two nights. The curtains were open so the moonlight shone into the tatami room. I couldn’t find the light switch, so it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. In the center of the room was a perfectly made up futon and pillow. The only other thing on the floor was a butsudan against the wall with a black and white framed picture of a man that must have been grandpa. About two thirds up the wall were dozen framed pictures of scowling men, some of them in WW2 soldier uniforms. They were hung in a manner that allowed them to lean forward and it seemed like they were all staring directly at the pillow. Right where I, the American who was banging one of theirs, was to sleep.

    Rural Chiba in the winter is dead silent at night. No streetlights or passing cars to flash in the window allowed for the perfect environment for the moon to do its business on the room. I undressed and crawled under the futon and spread out on my back, scanning the men who were obsessed with me. This was grandma’s prayer room and she had decided this is where I needed to sleep.

    The scowling men weren’t really scowling I figured out after staring back at them for a few minutes. These were Japanese men of the early 20th century and you didn’t smile in pictures then. These were men whose lives were necessary for me to have the wife I have. Even the soldiers, at whom I first recoiled at upon seeing, became human. One of them was about 30, which was my age at the time. He had on the flat Japanese army hat and a few medals pinned to his chest. All of them were dead now and grandma was praying for them every morning.

    Do I hate what Japan did in WW2? Without hesitation. But I didn’t realize until then that I didn’t really hate the average Japanese person who lived at that time. These were fathers and sons that had been sucked from their rice farms to kill other men on the whims of their government. Should all the memories from the Japanese that died in the war be locked into a museum like some kind of eternal prison of shame for China and Korea to wield like a baton for political advantage? I watch what’s happening in the U.S. and the scorn and hatred for Southern heritage and think, “Why can’t they honor their dead?”

     

     

     

  • To Be A Nihilist or Not – That is the Question

    Here’s some good news for you: Hamlet wasn’t contemplating nihilism. From my high school
    English classes through to my university English literature classes, I’ve been told that Hamlet’s
    famous soliloquy was about whether to commit suicide or not. However, the Prince of Denmark
    was more concerned with the choice of being a scuzzy, disloyal subject who will bide his time until
    he becomes king or of giving Claudius the old Right There Fred. By reading this soliloquy the way
    the Bard intended, we can perhaps find the strength to fight the outrageous slings and arrows of
    outrageous government ourselves.

    Here are perhaps the most famous words ever written by Shakes:

    HAMLET

    To be, or not to be–that is the question:
    Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
    The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
    Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
    And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep–
    No more–and by a sleep to say we end
    The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
    That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep–
    To sleep–perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,
    For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
    When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
    Must give us pause. There’s the respect
    That makes calamity of so long life.
    For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
    Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely
    The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
    The insolence of office, and the spurns
    That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
    When he himself might his quietus make
    With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
    To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
    But that the dread of something after death,
    The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
    No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
    And makes us rather bear those ills we have
    Than fly to others that we know not of?
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
    And thus the native hue of resolution
    Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
    And enterprise of great pitch and moment
    With this regard their currents turn awry
    And lose the name of action. — Soft you now,
    The fair Ophelia! — Nymph, in thy orisons
    Be all my sins remembered.

     

    What I had been taught repeatedly by corduroy elbow patch wearing public school teachers was
    that the To be is referring to existing, or, in other words, to live and the not to be is referring to
    committing suicide. There’s just one problem with that interpretation: Hamlet had already
    decided to kill Claudius before this scene. What he’s torn on here is the consequences of killing
    the usurping sumbitch. If he is To be that means continuing the way things are and eventually
    ending up as king one day himself. The other choice of not to be means he kills the king and, well,
    hopefully, it’s a deep sleep when he dies because otherwise, he’ll be rotting in Hellsinki. Kill the
    king and right Th’oppressor’s wrong and hope for the deep sleep. But damn, what if I’m wrong?
    It’s a logical question that really doesn’t have anything to do with offing himself.

    Let’s look at a couple of events from the past few years and see how the people involved may
    have had similar thoughts to the young Hamlet.

     

    Eduard Snowden

    The lines from Hamlet that jumps out at me in relation to Snowden are:

    The insolence of office, and the spurns
    That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,

    The kid is living the high life in Hawaii, making six figures a year and he decides to chuck it all
    in the shitter to expose massive 5th amendment violations by U.S. intelligence agencies.
    Snowden must’ve had more than one sleepless night as he wrestled with the choice of exposing
    The insolence of office by those tasked with keeping us safe. Did he contemplate suicide as a
    solution to his problems? I highly doubt it and the reading of Hamlet contemplating action vs
    inaction makes for an interesting comparison.

     

    Sharyl Attkisson

    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

    An award-winning journalist for CBS News, Attkisson decided to leave CBS. She later explains how
    her former employer had squelched stories on the Benghazi attacks and Obamacare. Like
    Snowden, Attkisson did not fall victim to her inner coward and followed her conscience instead.
    Did she pay a price? You can decide for yourself, but she paints a rather brutal picture of
    corporate media in her book, Stonewalled: One Reporter’s Fight for Truth Against the Forces of
    Obstruction, Intimidation, and Harassment in Obama’s Washington.

     

    Ayaan Hirsi Ali

    Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
    The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
    Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
    And by opposing end them.

    Escaping from an arranged marriage and the threat of being the victim of an honor killing,
    Hirsi Ali has certainly gone up against a sea of troubles over the years. Her choices were
    blindly following the path expected of many Muslim women and accepting the domination
    imposed on them by the men in their families or to break away and expose the reality of far too
    many women in the Islamic world. Suicide? I’m sure her critics would love for that idea to be
    floating around in her head. Instead, she took up arms in the form of exposing certain aspects
    of older and even modern interpretations of Islam that are oppressive.

     

    Of course, you are welcome to interpret young Hamlet’s soliloquy in whatever manner you like,
    but I think you are missing out the debate going on in the prince’s head: Accept the fate that
    has apparently been laid before you or attempt to right a wrong even though the law and even
    God may not sanction your actions. How long do you wait when justice seems to have
    abandoned your society and what happens if you have a society of vigilantes? I find these
    questions rich for mining of philosophical discussions. Should you kill yourself or try to right a
    wrong? Not much depth to that, unless you’re half a nihilist.

  • Frank and Anne. My Girls.

     

    The oregano was chilling out in a little bowl on the coffee table when the doorbell rang. It was 9 pm on a Saturday night and my Brazilian roommate and I were enjoying Little Big Man after a full day of skiing at Keystone Mountain. “Ding, Dong”. Whoever was there had the patience of toddler. Matt, my roommate, finally peeled himself from the recliner and staggered to the front door. “Hey, man. It’s for you”, he said as he plopped back down into the recliner. “Ding, Dong. Ding, Dong”.

    The front door chain was still hooked. I turned the door knob to expose a sliver of the outside world to a sliver of my face. “Open the door. I can smell it from here”. At first I thought the flashlight that had wedged itself into the opening the chained allowed, was speaking to me. Nope. It was the Herb Police. Thanks, Matt. “It’s for you”. Indeed.

    The Herb Police had run up on me before. Once, when we were enjoying some basil outside a strip club, an HP officer had rolled up completely unnoticed by us. He was so stealthy that I almost passed it to him for a hit. That HP officer simply said, “You should take that inside”, before pedaling away. The irate HP officer on the nasty end of the flashlight was clearly cut from a different segment of blue cloth.

    Of course I unchained the door and let him in because he demanded, “Unchain the door and let me in”. Evidently, an HP officer’s nose is so powerful it can snort an entire 4th amendment. “I could smell the oregano from the street”, and then mumbled something into his shoulder. Great. More HPs are on the way. “You two sit there and don’t move”. So, Matt and I sat on the couch as Dustin Hoffman acted his ass off behind us.

    About ten minutes later, three HP squad cars pulled onto my front lawn. The living room curtains lit up in blue and red. Now that our cherry had been popped, six or seven HP officers strode into the house like they owned the joint. The flashlight cop, a buzz cut twerp in his early 40s, directed the

    parade and before you could say, “Clown car”, HPs were scattered throughout the house, searching for any paraphernalia related to the illicit herb trade.

    “Yes, this is all the oregano we have”, and I pointed at the coffee table. If these pasta haters are too inept to find the plants on the window sill, fuck’em. They dumped the contents of my underwear drawer on the floor, flipped the mattress over and stuffed their chubby claws between the sofa cushions. Disappointed, the HPs began trickling out of the house, one by one. All that and Matt and I wind up with a ticket for possession of a linguini altering spice. “Yes sir. We’ll make the court day”. I hesitated before locking and chaining the door behind him. What’s the point?

    Only an hour of my life, but oregano can thicken time. I walked to the window and opened the curtains a crack. “You’re safe. They’re gone”, I said to my gals on the window sill. They were still trembling. Eventually I would have to sit them down and explain to them that evil exists in the world. How hiding from it sometimes isn’t cowardice. But it wasn’t time for that talk now. I let them sleep on the night stand next to my bed that night. Frank and Anne. Sweet dreams.

  • Straffinrun Tours

    Tō-ji, a Buddhist temple of the Shingon sect in Kyoto, one of the many beautiful attractions in Japan you aren’t visiting.

    Welcome to Straffinrun Tours.  Do you want to go around and see some of Japan’s oldest and most visited shrines and temples?  Experience the subtle beauty of a tea ceremony?  Try your hand at the wondrous art of ikebana?  Yes?  Get the f*** out of here because you bore me.  Use Google and save yourself a couple grand.  My tour is focused on exposing you to the concept of 本音 (pronounced honne) and 建前 (tatemae).  For that we will need to meet and watch real Japanese people doing mundane things in their daily lives.

    Have you ever laughed at a bad joke your boss or customer has made because the social situation called for it?  If yes, you have practiced tatemae.  The Chinese characters 建前 translate literally as “constructed front” and can be seen as your social persona that we put up to keep us from beating each other to death.  Some people say it’s basically lying, but, well, they’re idiots.

    Ever fantasize about slamming you boss’s head into the corner of his desk after hearing his bad pun for the 26th time?  Well, that would be honne.  本音 literally means “real sound” or, in other words, what you are really feeling at the moment.  Hopefully, you practice some impulse control and don’t run around calling a spade a spade.  It can be a bad idea.  Especially in Compton.

    Pachinko parlor

    So now that you’ve gotten the basics of honne/tatemae down, let’s find out what the little Nipponjins are up to.  First stop on the tour is a Pachinko parlor.  Noisy, smoky, and filled with dejected people gambling.  The game itself is ridiculous, but we’re not here to be bedazzled with blinking lights and digital breasts.  Over there!  Don’t look, but look at the woman in her 60s, wearing the tiger pattern blouse.  Her machine just went “reach” which means she has two of the three numbers necessary to win.  Will she?  Zannen (too bad).  She lost.  Did you see her reaction?  She pawed at the screen as if to say, “Oh, you’re a bad boy.”  Now watch the man in his 40s, wearing the suit.  His machine just went “reach”.  Zannen.  He lost, too.  Yet his was a stone-faced reaction despite having a 70% chance of winning \10,000.  The tiger blouse woman showed you her honne and the man, his tatemae.  You’ll notice about 90% of the players react like the man and 10% like the woman.  That’s Japan.  You don’t show your emotions in daily, public life unless you’re a freak.

    Let’s get out of here and grab a drink.  I know a pub down the street.  Yes, it does say “Pub,” but remember that donut you bought at the bakery in the station this morning?  It had “Donut” written on the wrapper, but it had eggplant inside.  This is not your mother’s English.  “Pub” to them means a small bar where, usually, a youngish gal, the one-san, and an oldish gal, the oba-san, fawn over you and you pay through the nose for the pleasure.

    The only pic I could find tagged “oba-san” that wasn’t granny porn.

    “Aah, sutoraifeen-san. Hisashiburi, desu ne” (long time, no see).  The oba-san greets us as we slide into our stools, her 48-year-old bosom defying gravity due to the hiked up obi (sash) of her kimono.  She pours us two Jim Beam Ryes on the rocks from the bottle with my name on it that she pulled off the shelf behind the bar counter.  Talk to her.  She is a master of tatemae.  Your jokes will be hilarious.  You look like Bradley Cooper, and where did you ever find that sweater?  Goodwill?  I’m not familiar with that brand.  Is it a boutique on Rodeo Drive?

    Here’s the rub; she doesn’t care about you other than you’re a paying customer.  She thinks you know that, but you see how good you feel regardless?  It’s dishonest honesty.  The true masters of tatemae don’t trick you into believing what they are saying is true, but rather allow you to bathe in the respect they are showering you with.  This is not your Western, “You look great.  Did you lose weight?” type of flattery.  It’s respect, so soak it in.

    Unless you want to drop a mortgage payment, I suggest we get out of here.  Hopefully, you’re beginning to see from our experiences at the pachinko parlor and the “pub” that honne/tatemae permeate Japanese consciousness.  You get polite, speedy, and competent service at the convenience store because to do otherwise would be disrespectful of not only you, the customer but also of the clerk themselves.

    So when you get back to The States and hear about “trigger warnings” and “micro-aggressions,” think about honne/tatemae.  Are the sensitive souls pushing this nonsense because they want a more respectful discourse, or are they simply forcing people to yield to their superior wisdom?  If it were truly about being respectful, they would show their tatemae and keep their petty grievances in the honne box.  Running around, pointing out trivial offenses is the exact opposite of what honne/tatemae is all about.  And for all the faults the concept has, it does provide a shield which can insulate you from nutjobs.  The next time you’re accosted by a pink-haired slob for using the wrong pronoun, just remember the oba-san from the pub and tell her, “Those black yoga pants really do smooth out the ripples in your thighs.”