Pengu!

I like cute things, which is probably why Japan and I get along so well.  Cutesy key chains, cell phone charms, little stuffed trinkets, gadgets that eventually clutter the home:  they all bring me a tiny bit of joy when I pile them up like a kid after a Halloween haul.

Like a campy fifties song, and then I saw him:

Cue the roaring motorcycle music, the summer nights, the woah-ah-ohs.  At a local gaming/amusement place, this little critter – aptly named Pengu – was the new found object of my cuteness obsession.  He moves his little feet back and fort and walk around, battery charged, waving an every present battle to make the world cuter.

The obstacle?  He had to be obtained via a undeniably rigged claw with a weak left pincher for 200 Y a try [a little more than 2 USD].  These games drive me insane.  They look easy, you are always SO close, and yet, you will not win.  But, you were SO CLOSE, driving you to pump quarters [or in this case yen] like a waterhose onto a garden.  Understandably,  I was sad when I saw my little friend encased in plexiglass.

One try.  I’ll try once.  I slipped 300 Y in for 2 tries.  Already, I’m being suckered.  I feel it.  The first try was a complete fail.  Of course, it takes a try to figure out how the hook system works.  The second try, I nail him.  The hook wraps perfectly, and comes up…empty.  Sadness.  I fell for it again.  I knew it would happen and yet I gave my 300 Y. Pengu, alas, would not be mine.

My face must have shown a great sadness, as one of the cute red aproned workers came over, opened the cabinet and readjusted the little critter.  She smiled and closed the door.  Not again, I thought.  Don’t do it.  Yet, my hand had already moved to give my money up yet again.  I positioned the hook and voila!

Pengu sits beside me as I type this post:

Later that evening, I saw 4 little Japanese girls with Carebears obtained from the impossible hooks, grinning and skipping through the floor.  I had seen the same worker standing by the machine as they were playing.  One generous amusement employee made 5 little peoples days.  Now, off to watch Pengu waddle around the apartment in glee.

Infectous Affection

Kids apparently love touch [even bad touch, re: a few posts ago].  They want to high five me, seemingly always after I have seen them with their fingers in their nose. They want to climb on me, poke me, rub their hands across my blond arm hair.  Those little snot factories just want to share their nose gold with me, via a system of trickle down snotonomics.  However, influenza has been making the rounds at schools, so my desire to be groped by children is at an all time low.

I taught kindergarten last week.  I made it through the entire lesson not being touched.  I kept fun times going while not so much as a graze of human contact.  Then, at the end, the teacher asked ‘touch?’  I can’t begin to explain the fear that went through me.  What did she want them to do?  All she said was ‘touch’?  What exactly does she mean by that?   A horror of being mobbed by tiny fingers and rubs must have made me shudder, wide eyed as a deer. They lined up and I stood awkwardly waiting.  Then, I realized, they would each get to high five me on the way back to their class.  Cool, I’m used to this routine.  Some of them lightly pat; some of them give the five all their tiny muscles can muster.  Granted, I’ve seen them picking their noses, hands in their mouths, scratching themselves, but I can sacrifice one hand to the god of child happiness, right?

This is completely normal: Kids like to high five.  I’ll just wash it off later.  I’m scot free on this class!  No weird touch! Then, the second from the last, stopped at my hand.  Slowly, she lifted her face up to my hand and lightly kissed it, lingering longer than ever necessary.  While I was taken aback by the mildly violative kiss, I was more horrified that she just kissed a hand that now housed all the germs of the class.  Right on my sweaty palm.  Poor child.  She bounded off with glee, pleased as her teachers smiled.

On Vocabulary

From How to Speak and Write Correctly [Joseph Devlin]:

There are upwards of 200,000 words in the recent editions of the large dictionaries, but the one-hundredth part of this number will suffice for all your wants. Of course you may think not, and you may not be content to call things by their common names; you may be ambitious to show superiority over others and display your learning or, rather, your pedantry and lack of learning. For instance, you may not want to call a spade a spade. You may prefer to call it a spatulous device for abrading the surface of the soil. Better, however, to stick to the old familiar, simple name that your grandfather called it. It has stood the test of time, and old friends are always good friends.

To use a big word or a foreign word when a small one and a familiar one will answer the same purpose, is a sign of ignorance. Great scholars and writers and polite speakers use simple words.

 

Dhal-li

A few nights ago, Shu Lan and I headed to a local Indian restaurant.  To my surprise, she ordered the dish with a ‘hot’ spicy level.  Normally, she orders it at that level because it is mild and pleasantly spicy.  That night, she conjectures, they saw me and assumed ‘hot’ meant American ‘hot’ not Japanese.  The result was a lentil dhal that left a singed and sore stomach, and a very disappointed Shu.  So, as a surprise, I gave my hand at a homemade Indian lentil dish which turned out quite pleasantly.  I used the recipe here, adding some tomatoes at the end [I read somewhere that citric acid can make lentils tough and need to cook longer].  In a flash of inspiration, knowing I wouldn’t be able to recreate naan, I made some chewy panfried bread which worked as a lovely substitute.  We added a salad with some very woody mushrooms, and had a cute little dinner.  Pictures:

Halloween!

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, primarily because you get to dress up.  This year, as with every year, my costume was last minute.  Shu Lan and I jointly came up with the idea for me to be Edvard Munch’s The Scream.  We even painted the border together, which was a fun project [except when I started complaining that there was no green in the painting, and Shu Lan insisted on putting green in because she mixed the color].  The result is quite…well, awesome:

Punch-out.

I’ve had a few humorous moments in teaching Japanese elementary children.  Today, however, was a reminder that danger lurks behind an easily scaled wall.  I’ve avoided the dreaded kancho; I’ve even managed not to be full on groped[I've heard horror stories of male teachers getting the fondle of a lifetime by a curious child].  Today stuck me firmly in the camp of the violated, the hurt, and the sad.

Today was my first time with the first graders.  I had had a fun and uneventful first three periods when I approached the fourth class.  The first graders, though limited in language ability, were digging Halloween and the coloring activities.  They would ramble on in Japanese before realizing that I probably didn’t understand and instead smile and seek a high five.  In between periods, the little tikes bordered on swarming, but fluttered off in the natural nature of a easily distracted child.  The fourth group came upon me like an avalanche.  I was their new jungle gym, my buttocks a drum set, the hair on my arm a wondrous blanket to be touched.  My efforts to raise my arms just made me a tree to be climbed and my strength beckoned to be tested by tiny hanging bodies.

Though I’m uncomfortable with this, it’s fairly standard. By letting them have their few minutes of touch and climb, they seem to settle quickly and we move back to normal body boundaries and English.  This class, however, decided it wasn’t enough.  Like a date gone horribly wrong, my rear became to object of pinches and whoops.  While I was attempting to fend off this new game of ass grabbery and a child was dangling from the other arm – the attack came.  From within the swarm, one mighty child stepped up, squared forward and punched me in the nethers.

I haven’t been punched in the boys since grade school.  So, it seems mildly fitting that the next time was when I was with first graders.  The moment is surreal.  Your eyes deliver warning message to your brain, which refuses to recognize it.  Surely what you think you saw didn’t happen.  Then, the pain telegraph comes in.  Somehow, I managed to not crumple on the spot.  I’ve found reactions are crucial to children – overreact and you might simply encourage it, but ignore it and you are simply inviting more.  Yet, a terroristic attack assaulted my boys.  What is an overreaction?  Through the urge to vomit and throttle the child, I managed to retain some composure.  Thankfully, the bell rang which sent the little demons to the desks and me to the front of the class to teach.

The damage was done, however.  Like a puppy who has been hit, every motion toward  me was met with a jerk and slight fear.  Riding my bike home, I literally expressed my disbelief out-loud numerous times.  So then, I was a crazy man riding a bike.

Children: 2.  Bryan: -40

Betty mode – engage!

One of the downsides to living overseas is the absence of familiar childhood foods.  Not simply that you can’t travel to a restaurant and get a hefty serving of fond memories, but that often you simply can’t even get the ‘basic’ ingredients that you need to recreate a mirror image of your beloved dish.  Or, so I thought.

I have always had a mild curiosity how to make something from scratch.  I’m fairly amazed that someone in the past decided to combine this ground item with that wet item and eat it.  Or, let it sit for 10 hours and then eat it.  While in HK, I let my cooking interests subside due to the difficulty of cooking and storing foods in a dormitory setting.  Now, I’m back!  While here, I’ve had various successes recreating some beloved foods [including one mind blowingly awesome set of biscuits and gravy].  This has resulted in Shu Lan often saying ‘Figure out how to make X.’  This weekend brought the request for  clotted cream [we found some delightful scones], a recipe calling for  buttermilk.

Alas, cheeses and various creams/milks are hard to come by here.  Suddenly, I wondered if I could make buttermilk.  I figured not – that it would require some ridiculous yeast molecule or brewing apparatus from Frankenstein’s lab.  Turns out buttermilk is the easiest thing on the earth to make.  Take some milk, pour some vinegar, let sit.  The longer you let it sit, the more buttermilky it becomes.

Buttermilk reminds me of a early morning, practically night still, when my grandmother, grandfather, and I awoke at a motel.  As it was nearly 5 AM, it was time for breakfast before continuing on the road to the next venue.  A sleepy Bryan was greeted by biscuits and gravy, eggs, and juice.  My grandfather had probably already been up for an hour, having already dressed and gotten breakfast.  My grandmother was drinking buttermilk, which of course I now wanted as any impetuous child is apt to do.  After all, I liked butter.  I liked milk.  I even liked butterflies.  Buttermilk conjured images of sweet happiness.

I remember nearly gagging at drinking it.  My face must have shown, as my grandmother said in her raspy voice, ‘It’s good ain’t it.’  The evil grin on her face showed her betrayal to me.  I, not wanting to admit defeat, struggled through the glass.  As I remember, I was introduced to grapefruit around the same time and was also greeted with that same mischievous smile. Most of my memories of good cooking involve my grandmother, as my mother unfortunately cannot cook [sorry to out you mom ], and so crafting things sometimes brings back bittersweet memories.

Today, I like buttermilk.  So, when I offered it to Shu Lan, it wasn’t until she scrunched her nose and that it was terrible that I remembered that moment.  I grinned, and said, ‘Oh come on.  It’s good ain’t it?’

That’s some bull…

Last weekend, we headed up to Uruma for some bull fights.  Awing and terrifying, I had [and still have] some mixed feelings about the event.  Having nearly a 100 year history, the bull fights are, in some ways, traditional.  It can’t be denied, the battle of the bulls is intense and exhilarating.   Two massive creatures are brought into a ring, who then lock horns in an epic version of ‘chicken.’  They push and groan, goaded by owners who loudly overpower the cries of the crowd.

The painful moment comes when a bull backs down and the winning bull decides to continue pushing and attacking.  The fight before we arrived ended with a bull deeply gouged in the leg.  I myself saw a massive bull shoved into the metal barriers, repeatedly battered by his opponent.  The owners and event staff do their best at the end to keep the bulls separate, but in truth there is little they can do to stop a 1000 lb beast.  At the end of the fight, the bull is paraded around the ring, children ride it, dancers dance.  The bulls, oddly, are placid and calmly enjoy the attention and people.  Here are some photographs for you:

FWD: FWD:

In my digital treasure trove was a copy of this FWD email that I received sometime in college.  While I sincerely doubt its premise, the entire situation humors me still.  I share it [typos and all] in the hope it makes you smile:

The following is an actual question given on a University of Washington 
chemistry mid term. The answer was so “profound” that the professor shared 
it with colleagues, which is why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as 
well.

Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs 
heat)? 

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle’s Law, (gas 
cools off when it expands and heats up when it is compressed) or some 
variant.

One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So, we need 
to know the rate that souls are moving into Hell and the rate they are 
leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, 
it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls 
are entering Hell, lets look at the different Religions that exist in the 
world today. Some of these religions state that if you are not a member of 
their religion, you will go to Hell.

 Since there are more than one of these religions and since people do not 
belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. 
With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in 
Hell to increase exponentially.

Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle’s Law 
states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the 
same, the volume of Hell has to expand as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities:
1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter 
Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell 
breaks loose.
2. Of course, if Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of 
souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell 
freezes over.
So, which is it?
If we accept the postulate given to me by Ms Teresa Banyan during my 
Freshman year, that “…it will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with 
you.”, and take into account the fact that I still have not succeeded in 
having sexual relations with her, then, #2 cannot be true, and thus I am 
sure that Hell is exothermic and will not freeze.    

A+

A paying off digital hoard…

Those who know me know I am a mild pack rat who strangely keeps papers, receipts, tokens, and other oddities.  My digital savings are even more random and less organized.  Every few years I purge my physical life of possessions to help me maintain manageability.  Strangely, this habit does not extend to my digital storage.

The result is a weird labyrinth of folders of digital memories.  Here is a snapshot:

• A excel file sheet for a budget from 2004.
• No less than 15 different versions of my resume from secondary school to the present. Even stranger, several of them are in the same folder.
• A word doc of riddles spanning 42 pages in a 10 pt font.
• An entire folder of random photographs [flowers, benches, etc] that I used as source material when I drew more.

Still, I’m not deleting any of it.  Why, you ask.  Because I recently found a treasure trove of PDF files on Tennyson’s Idylls of the King that I downloaded years ago with the intention of revising a summer essay.  In my current location, materials are a little hard to come by – so they are a heaven send in my revisions for a writing sample for graduate school applications.  I literally let out a squeal of glee when I found them.  Digital joys…