I only remember two bike wrecks in my lifetime.  Last week, I added a third.  The first, I was in high school biking with a backpack and holding my black trumpet case.  An unfortunate series of events led to the case slipping from my hand, hitting the wheel, and me flying through the air.  I remember it vividly b/c what hurt most was hitting my head on my helmet.  The helmet [my parents only regulation for me biking to school] rather than placed correctly upon my skull, had been strapped to my backpack. I proceeded to slam my skull against it as I landed on my back, momentarily blinding me.  I also remember it because it’s the first time I had a bike flip, something I thought might only happen in movies. The second was in Moab.  Having recently taking up the hobby of mountain biking, I thought I’d go over spring break.  Unfortunately, a lack of skill with clipless pedals meant I was unable to release my feet from the pedals on a treacherous downhill, where I and the bike tumbled in tandem, my feet attached to the pedals, down the rocky slopes.  At least by that point, I had learned the importance of a helmet.

I bike from work every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.  On this fateful day, I saw the light was about to change, so I sped up to cross the street.  Upon reaching the other side, I needed to make a turn.  A serious of events made that turn a failure.  First, I had recently developed a slight bend in the back wheel.  The wheel constantly snagged the brake, so I had unhooked it.  Foolishness.  Second,  after a rainy day, a layer of water and mud lay upon the concrete area.  Suffice to say, it’s been a while since I’ve flown through the air.  Every time it is confusing and momentarily wondrous.  Then the shock of cold hard reality hits as you become one with concrete.  Thankfully, of sorts, cool mud rose to cushion me.  That’s not to say it didn’t hurt.  Boy, did it hurt.  I thought I broke my arm.  Robotically, I got up and checked my body.  Nothing was broke, nothing missing.  The pain quickly vanished and I felt fine.  The bike was ok, so I, in the spirit of pride, set off.

I felt ok.  Rattled but ok.  Slowly, however, throughout the ride home, as the adrenaline wore off, I began to re-feel the pains of the accident.  My ankle felt swollen, my knee was hurting, my shoulder like a knife was in it.  Only when I got home did I realize I was entirely coated in mud on the right side, along with blood all down my forearm.  My reflector was broken off on the bike.

Thankfully, it’s all minor injuries.  My knee is still scraped up, making walking a daily reminder of my goofiness.  Unfortunately, another reminder that most of my injurious accidents are simply the result of my own bad decisions.  Carrying a trumpet while riding, wearing pedals that I was uncomfortable with on an unfamiliar terrain, and unhooking my brake and recklessly speeding across an intersection.  I’ll be up for a Darwin Award soon enough.

A new ramen shop opened up down the street.  Cute, delicious and cheap.  I like to share my food:

When I first saw it, I thought it was the worst game idea ever:

The top of that reads ‘TYPING of the DEAD.’  I couldn’t help laughing out loud You play an agent who wears a pack, typing the zombies and undead demons to death.  Yes, while you look cool with a trench coat and sunglasses,  you carry a keyboard throughout the cut scenes. You sit and type as words pop up under enemies.

Ridiculous.  Yet, I put a coin.  I had ridiculous amounts of fun, seemingly transported back to junior high typing class.  Zombies and winged demons groaned and exploded to the might of my type [ing].  As I felt the carpal tunnel burn, words become more complicated and unfamiliar [all the words are Japanese], and my agent fell to the forces of evil.  Alas, my typing skills were not mad enough to save the world.  I’ll remember that when the zombie apocalypse comes.

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.

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.

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.

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 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:

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