On this sweltering day, I squeezed into Tokyo Big Sight with a multitude of other sweaty people to. . . mingle through warehouse-sized rooms of dojinshi (fan-drawn comic books) booths. What can I say? I got to rub shoulders with real-live cosplayers, including (unfortunately unphotographed) Queen Amidala of Naboo and her entourage.
But it's been years since I've tried to follow this particular subculture, and I didn't recognize most of the characters being so lovingly reproduced by the fans. Four hours was enough, but click on the photo to see more pics.
By the way, the sign was a 'Comikke' exclusive for the first-aid station, offering the kind-hearted advice to get enough sleep, and try not to collapse (from the heat?).
Otaku, sweaty but always polite.
On another less humorous note, I just finished watching a documentary on Yasukuni Shrine on NHK. It's fascinating that the 'problem' of the shrine developed smoothly out of a post-war contradiction about two things:
1. state intervention in 'religion'
2. the state's official stance on the Tokyo War Crimes Trial.
I divide the issue into two frames: 1) the specific problems of the Yasukuni Shrine, including its enshrinement of 'class-A war criminals'. 2) the general problem of war commemoration, and state responsibility. The documentary lays out details for the first issue very clearly; three days after sovereignty returned to Japan (the end of the US-led occupation, 1952), the government determined that all war criminals would not be considered criminals under domestic law, and their families should be compensated with state money. In the international arena, however, they would accept the legitimacy of the court's judgement. From this legal basis, (and the Japanese government is a very legal-minded entity) developed the argument that they should thus be enshrined as national heroes just like all others who have died at war. Or at least, there should be no legal reason to block their enshrinement, since they are not considered criminals under domestic law.
The second, wider issue of a government's responsibility for its past, and how it commemorates its military. I have little to add to this discussion (as an American, we've done plenty of celebrating our military history), except to mention that Japan's post-war constitution maintains a separation of religion and state. So why the official visits to a Shinto shrine where Buddhists and Christians object to being enshrined?
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
OMG! 60 year anniversary
This is so 1337 it's st00pid. But since it's the 60th anniversary of the ending of WWII, and I'm a historian (well, almost), I couldn't help giggling. Yes. I go giggle at times. ROFL.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Stinky fish
Just got back home from Ueno, where I spent the evening sitting at a grimy stall, barely sheltered from the rain by a leaking roof, eating the most revolting food imaginable. . . over beer. I finally had a taste of horse (smoked like ham, though deep red, almost purple even), and it was quite good. At least in comparison to what should best be known as rotten, dried fish (called kusayahoshimono or くさや干物). It smells almost like that rotten tofu the Taiwanese adore. But it's fish, and it's revolting. It smells like sh*t (all the other customers tried to shuffle away as far as possible when they brought out the dish), and as you chew it up in your mouth, it in fact feels, tastes, smells, like you have a mouth full of it. Worst 400 yen I've ever spent. I tried to get the taste out of my mouth with the stewed organ meats that we also ordered. The two tastes rather complemented, to my chagrin.
That sh*t better not make me sick.
That sh*t better not make me sick.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Sky-high in Shibuya
Zooming out of a mid-day DJ event near Yoyogi Park. No wires, and no post-production.
Surgery in Japan
A few days ago, I went into the hospital here for a pre-surgery meeting with the anaesthesia department. There were about 15 of us, in a posh lounge/waiting area outside of the doctor's office. They told us to wait until 9:30am, whereupon someone dimmed the lights and started the powerpoint presentation. It was on anaesthesia and what to expect surgery to be like in their hospital (rather like the explanatory video in Battle Royale). Far too much information. I suppose the purpose is to generate a sense of participation, of being in control, for the patient. But I also felt a weird stress and sense of responsibility, lest I get some of the details wrong.
I mean, I don't even remember which of the white and blue cannisters is the oxygen, and which is the general anaesthetic. . . and then somehow, sometime they're supposed to administer a general anaesthetic via intravenous drip. I just don't remember how all that's going to take place, but I feel as if I should.
I mean, I don't even remember which of the white and blue cannisters is the oxygen, and which is the general anaesthetic. . . and then somehow, sometime they're supposed to administer a general anaesthetic via intravenous drip. I just don't remember how all that's going to take place, but I feel as if I should.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
My trip, in five points
1. Aggression (J train) and Zen (A train) on the NY subway
a. New York is a strange place, and nowhere is it stranger than in the subway where bizarre extremes coexist in the dank smelly tunnels. One day I was witness to a screaminng confrontation in front of the ticket booth of the J train East Broadway station. A Chinese guy was screaming "come out! motherf****r!" To which the ticket attendant, wielding a metal pole, would go sQUaWKsqUAWkSquAWk! from inside the booth. Since the thin spectacled hispanic ticket attendant wouldn't leave the booth, they remained at a high-pitched impasse. Even as I passed through the turnstile, I could hear them echoing down to the platform. (come to think of it, I saw many many fights/arguments when I was in NYC)
b. With all my bags, on my way to JFK on the A train, a middle-aged white guy plops down next to me; he immediately begins talking to me about Japan, how he's 48 years old, how his adopted father was a 'teacher' at the University of Tokyo, and about how he was taught to respect peace and his elders. He mutters on and on about how he learned martial arts early on because his father was a monk (is there a direct link between these two matters?), and about how much mental discipline he has. Next he relates how he stopped a thug from harassing a Japanese woman on the subway once. Leaving the train, he tells me to think of him if I visit the 'temple of the cat', raising his left hand in cat-like paw. I suppose he means maneki neko, but I'm not sure exactly what temple he's talking about since most restaurants feature such a cat. There's plenty about his story that sounds dubious, especially since he didn't actually say anything about Japan, or Zen that was not common knowledge ('what is the sound of one hand clapping'), and his weird confusion over the naming of the Japanese isles. Then there's the deeper question of whether one really needs to tell someone about their inner peace. What is there to tell, if your soul is completely tranquil? Is there any more need to assert your ego, or rather, is there not instead just enduring silence?
2. Little Boy at Japan Society
Murakami Takashi has 'curated' (more like assembled) an exhibition at the Japan Society entitled 'Little Boy - the exploding arts of Japan's subculture' (featuring a floating image of a Ikari Shinji on the cover of the exhibition catalogue). I find the production of the exhibition interesting, because its contents are for the most part things that are commonplace elements of daily life in Japan, and not per se art. But when you pull together 60 or so local government mascots and line them all up, it's hard not to consider them a social phenomenon. The same goes for the hello kitty display. And the room-sized Zaku head that greets you when you enter.
Another thing about the exhibition is Murakami's deliberately political take on Japanese subculture, at once as infantile, as dominated by American cultural/political/economic imperialism, as subversive, as a response to capitalism. One section of the exhibition featured a wall-sized reproduction of Article 9 of the Japanese constitution, where Japan (is forced by the Americans??) to renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation. Next to it is a set of Godzilla dolls. . .
3. Mexican food shack
There was this old worn-down shack along Route 1 near my house when I was growing up. Apparently, they sold Mexican food in there, and my father would often, jokingly, say he wanted to eat there. Well, I finally went there, after learning that it's still open after these 20 something years. Inside, the floor is covered by worn orange carpeting. The seating area, nothing but several picnic tables and benches. The food arrives on styrofoam plates, but it wasn't bad at all . . .
4. Skullsplitter. . . in NYC!
Ah, I never thought I'd see this stuff stateside, but this was the thickest, murkiest beer I've ever had. Here is a link to the export label. Notice the placid demeanor of ol' Thorfinn the Mighty, AKA 'skullsplitter'. On the domestic (orkneys) label, Thorfinn is swinging his axe straight at your face, for even daring to open the bottle.
5. Smells of NYC
(my narrating ability is breaking down. this post is getting too long)
Sharp, but at times musty, as opposed to the heaviness of Tokyo air. Blue skies above NYC, bracing winds and clean air. But inside the deep brown buildings,scratched paint, creaking elevators and the dust of ages.
a. New York is a strange place, and nowhere is it stranger than in the subway where bizarre extremes coexist in the dank smelly tunnels. One day I was witness to a screaminng confrontation in front of the ticket booth of the J train East Broadway station. A Chinese guy was screaming "come out! motherf****r!" To which the ticket attendant, wielding a metal pole, would go sQUaWKsqUAWkSquAWk! from inside the booth. Since the thin spectacled hispanic ticket attendant wouldn't leave the booth, they remained at a high-pitched impasse. Even as I passed through the turnstile, I could hear them echoing down to the platform. (come to think of it, I saw many many fights/arguments when I was in NYC)
b. With all my bags, on my way to JFK on the A train, a middle-aged white guy plops down next to me; he immediately begins talking to me about Japan, how he's 48 years old, how his adopted father was a 'teacher' at the University of Tokyo, and about how he was taught to respect peace and his elders. He mutters on and on about how he learned martial arts early on because his father was a monk (is there a direct link between these two matters?), and about how much mental discipline he has. Next he relates how he stopped a thug from harassing a Japanese woman on the subway once. Leaving the train, he tells me to think of him if I visit the 'temple of the cat', raising his left hand in cat-like paw. I suppose he means maneki neko, but I'm not sure exactly what temple he's talking about since most restaurants feature such a cat. There's plenty about his story that sounds dubious, especially since he didn't actually say anything about Japan, or Zen that was not common knowledge ('what is the sound of one hand clapping'), and his weird confusion over the naming of the Japanese isles. Then there's the deeper question of whether one really needs to tell someone about their inner peace. What is there to tell, if your soul is completely tranquil? Is there any more need to assert your ego, or rather, is there not instead just enduring silence?
2. Little Boy at Japan Society
Murakami Takashi has 'curated' (more like assembled) an exhibition at the Japan Society entitled 'Little Boy - the exploding arts of Japan's subculture' (featuring a floating image of a Ikari Shinji on the cover of the exhibition catalogue). I find the production of the exhibition interesting, because its contents are for the most part things that are commonplace elements of daily life in Japan, and not per se art. But when you pull together 60 or so local government mascots and line them all up, it's hard not to consider them a social phenomenon. The same goes for the hello kitty display. And the room-sized Zaku head that greets you when you enter.
Another thing about the exhibition is Murakami's deliberately political take on Japanese subculture, at once as infantile, as dominated by American cultural/political/economic imperialism, as subversive, as a response to capitalism. One section of the exhibition featured a wall-sized reproduction of Article 9 of the Japanese constitution, where Japan (is forced by the Americans??) to renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation. Next to it is a set of Godzilla dolls. . .
3. Mexican food shack
There was this old worn-down shack along Route 1 near my house when I was growing up. Apparently, they sold Mexican food in there, and my father would often, jokingly, say he wanted to eat there. Well, I finally went there, after learning that it's still open after these 20 something years. Inside, the floor is covered by worn orange carpeting. The seating area, nothing but several picnic tables and benches. The food arrives on styrofoam plates, but it wasn't bad at all . . .
4. Skullsplitter. . . in NYC!
Ah, I never thought I'd see this stuff stateside, but this was the thickest, murkiest beer I've ever had. Here is a link to the export label. Notice the placid demeanor of ol' Thorfinn the Mighty, AKA 'skullsplitter'. On the domestic (orkneys) label, Thorfinn is swinging his axe straight at your face, for even daring to open the bottle.
5. Smells of NYC
(my narrating ability is breaking down. this post is getting too long)
Sharp, but at times musty, as opposed to the heaviness of Tokyo air. Blue skies above NYC, bracing winds and clean air. But inside the deep brown buildings,scratched paint, creaking elevators and the dust of ages.
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