Broad Spectrum Antibiotics...

Okay. Okay. I'm going to do more of this blogging thing. I've been feeling guilty. My blog conscious are getting the best of me. Today at work, I booked Dick Cavett. Which is better than the last job I had (during my depressive non-blog existence) which I got paper cuts and lived in a constant state of existential dread. I'm a researcher and writer for a show on the History channel. I'm reading books with titles like "The Road to Terror", "The Black Hands of Beijing", and "Stalin's Hangman." So for the time being my existential angst has ebbed in favor of all encompassing weltschmerz. I want to read Judy Blume novels and eat pop rocks.

Sad. This is just sad. My blogging has been utterly remiss. I'm back and I'll try, really really try, to keep on this thing. I'm currently working at the lovely Ten Worlds Entertainment in sunny downtown Hollywood. The prostitutes across the street in front of the 7-11 have legs like trunks but the building itself is charming. Rumor has it that Alfred Hitchcock used this very office, this very space were I'm sitting and not doing my job, as his production office. The job in question is as a researcher and a writer for a show that will at some point be airing on the History Channel. More later...

Merry Bloomsday to all...

Jussi, Sean and the gang came down to LA for the week. Good times all around. Maybe I'll fill in more later when I have time. I don't now.

LA Moment 1) The other day at the Coffee Table, I saw Zack De La Roche of Rage Against the Machine fame reading a copy of "Trosky for Beginners" Everyone's reaction was something along the lines of "shouldn't he have already read that?"

LA Moment 2) As I was taking my semi-daily jog around the Silver Lake reservior, I saw a middle-aged woman in sport spandex power walking while reading a script. Sigh.

Right. More later...

Hello one and all. I realized that it's been almost a year since I posted something on this fine blog. The news in brief. I'm back from Japan. Ruriko's back too. We moved from the howling desert wasteland of Santa Clarita to the verdant hills of Silver Lake near downtown LA. I worked for a TV on Fox called Cracking Up, which is now cancelled. Oh and we have a cat now, named Shacho.

Yesterday, I received this sad news in the mail·.

08/22/03: Rock Star Wesley Willis Dead at 40

Dear Friends and fellow Wesleynauts,
We are deeply saddened to report that one of our artists, Wesley Willis passed away yesterday, Thursday, August 21st. Wesley will be greatly missed by all that had the privilege to know him, as well as the fans who have been fortunate enough to experience his genius. Wesley was diagnosed with Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia (CML) at the end of 2002, and had to undergo emergency surgery on June 2nd to identify the source of, and to suppress internal bleeding. It is not clear if this bleeding was related to his leukemia or not, and the exact cause of death is still unknown. Wesley had been recovering at a Hospice in Illinois, and since the surgery his health had deteriorated rapidly. His songs were simultaneously disturbing, hilarious, blunt, and intoxicating. Wesley's sheer excitement and unaffected honesty about every cultural phenomenon, defined his music as truly individual, and truly punk rock.
Wesley released well over 50 albums - 3 of which are on AlternativeTentacles, and a 4th, entitled, Wesley Willis Greatest Hits Vol. 3 (CD) had already been
scheduled for release in October of this year.

Six years ago, I witnessed a concert by Willis in Ann Arbor, Michigan, knowing very little about the guy or his obvious mental illness. Hereās a email report of it I sent to a friend.

Fri Nov 21 14:17:18 1997

Wesley Willis ambled on stage with an arm full of notebooks. He warmed up the audience with, "My demon's been talking shit. I hate that mutherfucker. This ain't the good Willis tonight. It's the bad one. My demon's been talking shit and I'm going to kill that fucker." He picked a green one, propped it up on his Casio, sat and that's where he remained planted for the entire show. That was it, no band. Then he fired up the Casio and started his set, which included:

Taste the Camel's shitty hole
Suck the pussy's dick
Don't Drink and Drive
Lick a racehorse's booty hole
Kiss my Rotweiler's ass
Eat Donkey Shit
Suck a crazy sheep dog's dick
Shoot down my happy music
Michael Jackson sucks little boys' dicks
Jordan Mike suck my dick
Sonic Reducer
Avoid the splattered brains
Beware of the turd burglar

In between songs he ranted more about his "mutherfuckin' demon." It quickly became apparent to all but the beer swilling frat boys in the back that Wesley was legitimately nuts. None of this commodified tortured posing a la Trent "I'm so tragic" Reznor. This was the real McCoy. During the entire concert he didn't react once to the audience's cheers and shouts except to occasionally roar "Shut the fuck up."

Wesley looks like the sort of person you would avoid on the subway--huge frame, army fatigues, a stained shirt with a gold "W" painted on it, a beat up and heavily duct taped CDman slung around his neck, and a completely glazed expression on face. The most notable thing about this guy was the large grey bruise on his forehead, assumably from delivering one too many of his hallmark headbutts of appreciation.

The audience's reaction was perhaps more interesting than the concert itself. At first they were enthusiastically cheering, but slowly the audience slide into stricken pallor punctuated with nervous tittering. The fact that for each song Wesley used the EXACT same melody (the one used in his single "Kurt Cobain") lead me to believe that he was hell bent on taking the audience with him on his spiral descent to loonyville. Imagine being trapped in a room with a constant loop of "We Built This City" and you get the idea. I doubt that Wesley actually ever touched the keyboard once, instead he limited himself to three function keys. Most soon left, but a few stalwarts (like me) held forth to the bitter end. My overeducated overdeveloped critical sensibilities groped blindly for some satisfying hook to hang this ceaseless onslaught of a mad man's ravings. Part of me though that this was a true voice from the margins, unschooled and raw. And part of me thought that the concert was some freak-show brought about by a cynically hip Svengali-like manager. Anyhow, Wesley Willis was, if not good, then certainly memorable.

Howdy all. Iām back in the US of A, struggling to shrug off the waking stupor of jet lag. In the morning I feel fine, but as the afternoon progresses I can feel my brain spinning down, shedding IQ points by the hour. By the time 6 or 7 rolls around, Iām a drooling idiot who losses keys and who forgets what he was saying in mid-sentence. Feels like being old but without the bladder control problem.

The other day as the jet lag hallucinations were just beginning to cloud my mind, I was replenishing my food supply at Vons. While looking for a daikon radish in the vegetable section I heard the green grocer chatting with one of the customers ö a middle aged woman with a great tan. He asked if she lived in Stevenson Ranch ö a particularly loathsome subdivision in a town filled with loathsome subdivisions. She responded, "Hell no! Iām not one of those goddamned Stepford wives." Wow. I sort of thought you might be tarred and feathered for airing such opinions in this town. Later while in the checkout line, I overheard one of those goddamned Stepford wives complaining about the new computer thingie where you swipe your credit card. The cashier, who looked like she spent most of her life standing in front of a cash register, patiently explained how to use the machine, ending her spiel with a sympathetic "Yeah, theyāre kind hard to figure out." Suddenly, Kenny the bag boy who clearly was not all there piped up. "Yeah. Imagine explaining how to use that to a 150-year old man. I mean an exactly 150-year old man. That would be really hard. That would be really really hard. And trying to explain using that thing to a 200-year old man would be really really really hard. Just impossible, really. (slight pause) I canāt believe Iām going to be 30 soon." As Kenny continued his running monologue, the cashier wearily ignored him and rang me through. Kenny continues: "I see your name is Crow. I understand that they have a new rock star whoās also named Crow. Sheryl Crow, I believe. I really like her song Winding Road. Thank you for shopping at Vons, Mr. Crow. Etc. etc."

Hello all. Iām in Tokyo now watching a TV show with some Japanese starlet in Peruvian jungle suffering through a meal of turtle penis. Every time I go to Tokyo there is some new building or development being thrown up. The other day I dropped by Roppongi Hills -- a shiny new complex with a huge movie theater, a sundry of overpriced shops and an impressive collection of bad public art. This being summer vacation, the place was packed with familyās and young couples snapping photos with their cell phones left and right. The place looked like it would be more a home in West LA and I soon left feeling like I had seen the place before. Instead I sought out some of the bars where I danced all night in when I lived in Ibaraki eight years ago. My favorite bar had since been turned into a Starbucks. Tokyo has been wrecked and built up so many times, and each new building is more ridiculous and inhuman that the last, giving the place increasingly a feel of a dystopian sci-fi flick, that part of me simply wants to say: build more. Make the Tokyo more gigantic and bizarre. But then yesterday, while Ruriko and I were looking for an over-priced macrobiotic restaurant along Omote-Santo -- Tokyoās answer to the Champs Elysse ö we noticed that the famed Doujunkai Apartment complex had been demolished. The Doujunkai apartments was one of first examples of Bauhaus architecture in Japan which somehow survived the 1923 Taisho earthquake and US Air force in 1945. They were elegant and gave the whole area a certain charm. In its place I sure theyāre going to throw up some shiny glass box featuring another fuckinā Starbucks.

Speaking of times gone by, the other day I ventured up to Ibaraki for the day. I first went to Tsuchiura, located on the far finger of Lake Kasumiguara. It was where my friend Ted lived and where I frequently went to escape from the tedium of Ogawa machi -- small farming berg where I was placed. The place was more depressing than when I visited two years ago. The shopping mall where Ted and I bought used CDs and drank beer was a ghost town and all of the old department stores have gone belly up. There is a new department store monstrosity that opened up about five years back across from the train station. My friend Yuki predicted that it would go belly up too in a couple of years. Yuki and I spent most of the day catching up over Okonomiyaki at one of the few stores still open in that shopping mall.

I told her about working at BIG and Ruriko and about our mutual distaste for George W. Bush. She told me about her dumb job and her cat Godzilla who is getting on in years, gossip about mutual friends. One is working in a wedding salon as a hairdresser and another has expanded to an alarming girth. She also told me about a dream she had in which she was along with Ted helping me move from my apartment in LA, which was literally on the beach. When the moving guys showed up they brought out a vast array of exotic vacuum machines to clean my house. I was apparently wildly fascinated by them and kept pestering the moving guys with questions. Eventually, they mentioned that they had a vacuum cleaner shaped like a dog. After repeatedly pleading with them, they grudgingly brought the thing out of their van. It was only a beat up plastic toy dog and clearly in no way a vacuum cleaner. I was very disappointed. It was good talking to Yuki. The more my Japanese improves the more I realize that I actually have something to talk about with her, which Iāve sadly learned isnāt always the case.

For dinner, I jogged up to Mito where I briefly saw Ikuko, an ex-girlfriend of mine. I met her at the used-clothing shop she opened up two years ago. The store itself is roughly the size of my bathroom in LA but the location was pretty good and her wares were cool if pricey. She introduced me to her ferret-faced boyfriend who scowled at me for twenty minutes as she closed up shop and then hopped in his Jeep Cherokee and left. We ate dinner at a Thai restaurant that her brother opened, talked about old times and Ruriko and ferret-face, and then I hopped on the last train back to Tokyo, which for some reason is at the appalling early time of 9:30pm. On the way back, the train stopped for an hour at the station closest to Ogawa-machi. Something was messed up because of the heavy rain and freakishly cold weather the area is experiencing. Across from me sat a young mother who passed the time staring into her cell phone and whacking her spastic child who was terrorizing the train car.

Anyway, itās only a few days before my grudging return to the US of A whereupon Iām going to have to find a job fast or move into a cardboard box.

Iām in my last few days of living here in Kumamoto. On Tuesday or so, Ruriko and I are heading to the bright lights and big-city bustle of Tokyo where Ruriko is finally going to shoot the bulk of her thesis. Yesterday, before Chakko returned to Fukuoka with her mom ö Rurikoās aunt ö she gave me a picture book that cataloged every weird ghost and spirit in Japanese mythology including a ghost for umbrellas that have been around too long, a disembodied horse leg that whacks unsuspecting victims in the head, and a truly bizarre ghost called a meoshiri which has a big round eye in its backside. In return, I gave her a couple tapes of my movies. Chakko also has a four-year daughter named Sakura who is the most relaxed, poised four-year old Iāve ever met. Rurikoās mom tells me that kidās preternaturally good disposition is because all the brown rice Chakko when she was pregnant with her.

Anyway, during some of the slow days at BIG ö when everyone was planning shoots instead of doing them ö I sometimes would take the company digital camera in hand and troll the city looking for things to shoot. The dangerous thing about digital cameras is that there are no worries about taking a bad picture. If you donāt like it, erase it. I ended up taking something like 400 pictures of things like street lamps, vending machines and ugly buildings. I donāt know why, but when it comes to photography Iām really not all that interested in shooting people; itās architecture and physical space that really does it for me. Iāll spare you those pics, but I assembled a few photos that would give you, the loyal reader, a sense of my life here in Kumamoto. First the touristy stuff·



This hereās Kumamoto castle. As I noted earlier in this blog, this castle was used in Kurosawa Akiraās Kagemusha. The original burned down in 1868 during a final desperate stand against the Meiji restoration. The battle was famously bloody and at its conclusion there was much mirth and beheadings to be had. The castleās painfully detailed reconstruction in the 1960s is limited to the exterior. The inside looks like an East German municipal hall. But the really remarkable thing about this castle is that stonewall in the foreground, which is original. They are designed so that a gullible invading army might be able to scale half way up the wall before it curves up at a deceptively steep angle leaving flaying soldiers open for all sorts of missiles, boiling oil and the like. The castle apparently took 20 years to build and when it was done, warlord Kato Kiyomasa killed the architect and everyone involved with project to keep them from leaking its weaknesses to enemies. I suppose itās only a matter of time before Halliburton adopts a similar policy.



This is the international headquarters of BIG. Actually, BIG takes up only part of the second floor ö next to an acupuncturist ö and part of the third. The landlord lives on the fourth floor with a dog that yaps incessantly.



And hereās a shot of me that Horita took during the Anesis shoot in June. Thatās Miyazaki in the background checking his cell phone and that guy in the back is Fujita, Yamano-sanās assistant. I think Yamano was off smoking a cigarette or something. We were all waiting for the sun to set. That intense expression on my face is not because of my concern for anything going on in the shoot, but rather a profound concern that I would make an ass of myself because of some half-understood command.



Alas, I have no still shots of the Touro maidens from my Yamaga shoot, but I do have this reasonably scenic shot of the town. Along with hot springs and pink clad women with funny lanterns on their heads, Yamaga is famous for making shochu and most of the buildings on this stretch of road are actually old distilleries.





Closer to home, this is Hachi, the Sumiās emotionally needy dog. Rurikoās parents are more camera-shy than she is, if thatās possible. But I was allowed to shoot pictures of Hachi with impunity. He doesnāt really bark so much as howl as if your removing his hind leg with a butter knife. This is especially the case when he senses the slightest whiff of abandonment, such as going to the store or the bathroom. Today, I went shooting a bit in the morning with Rurikoās camera. When I return, Hachi wouldnāt stop smelling my feet. He wouldnāt wait until I sat down either so I kept tripping over him. Anyway, strange dog.



This here is Ruriko, who is currently curled up asleep on the tatami mat behind me. I like this picture not only for the color composition, but also because itās one of the very shots I have of her where she doesnāt look embarrassed or annoyed that Iām pointing a camera at her.

And finally, Iām including some examples signs I found while walking hither and yon in Kumamoto·



I donāt know it thatās the name of the proprietor or the proprietorās appraisal of his customers·



I hate it when I get hair giggles·



And Iām just being silly here·

Hey gang. Yes, Iāve been an errant blogger as of late and to my legions of loyal readers, I bid you a heartfelt apology. Today was clear and not the blazing inferno it has been for much of the week. On Wednesday or so, the temperature here in Kumamoto was the same as Santa Clarita, that high desert suburban armpit where I call home, only Santa Clarita doesnāt have 85% humidity. Just walking from the tram to my office at 9:30 in the morning caused me to sweat through my shirt. Quite unseemly.

Today while eating dinner with Ruriko in front of the TV, I saw a show that featured an old man making out with a Boston terrier, a contest that pitted a group of comedians against a sumo wrestler (it wasnāt pretty), a guy who put crabs in his mouth to see what would happen, a wrestling match between bikini idols, and an Andy Kaufman-like Japanese comedian who was arrested for streaking in Pyongyang. The other day I saw a trivia show that included such morsels of information as very single member of the 1998 Yugoslavian soccer team had a name that ended in ć-vicä, that spiders get drunk on coffee, and that if one where to buy every single item in a train station kiosk shop the total price is “940,000 (about $75,000). They arrived at that figure by actually going out to a kiosk in Ebisu station and buying every damned thing. The expression of the woman behind the counter was priceless. Sure, Japanese TV is mostly crap, but at least itās memorable crap.

Anyway, today Ruriko and I spent most of the day hanging out with Chakko ö Rurikoās cousin. In a family that includes a Communist and a rock star, Chakko stands out as an eccentric. She is one of the few people Iāve met who seems utterly impervious to social expectations. She doesnāt give a wit to fashion, she speaks unself-consciously in a thick Kyushu accent even though she lives currently in Kyoto and she refers to herself using ćoreä, the coarse masculine word for ćIä. She dropped out of art school a while back (sheās a very talented draftsman) and is now taking a stab at filmmaking. Yesterday, she showed us one of her videos, which was a portrait of her friend who makes pictures with his own bodily excretions. It was pretty harrowing to watch, but had a certain style to it. Sheād fit right into Cal Arts. She also told me about a Gerogerogegege concert she witnessed a few years back. I became aware of Gerogerogegege when my friend Ted lent me an album called ćTokyo Anal Dynamiteä ö which is either the most God-awful album or the most brilliant album Iāve ever heard. I havenāt figured out which. Anyway, for the concert Gerogerogegege, who is apparently very fat, stood stark naked on stage saying ćEcstasyä over and over again for a full hour. Ruriko, Chakko and I lamented that there this sort of weirdo decadence was hard to find in the states.

On Friday, a huge typhoon blasted through. Friday was also my final day working at BIG, which is ironic because my first day at BIG also had a huge typhoon rolling through town. It was a teary-eyed departure filled with promises to stay in touch and to work with each other again. Actually, Horita liked my work so much that I am the official head of the BIG Los Angeles office. I doubt this is going to lead to much actual work, but who knows. The night before there was a big blow-out party on my behalf at a recently opened hip nightspot build in a refurnished traditional house. Hereās a picture of the gathering below:



The lanky white guy in middle is me. Going clock-wise, the guy in the greenish shirt is Fukushima-san. Heās a producer and was out for most of the day, so I really didnāt know him all that well. The guy with the glasses giving the requisite peace sign to the camera is Miyazaki-san. Heās the guy who I dragged all over hither and yon for my shoot and who likes to eat grilled tripe. Next is Oshima-san who was my producer for my Yamaga shoot, and finally thereās Horita-sanās wife Naomi who is in some convoluted way related to Rurikoās dad.
Anyway, several pitchers of beer and several plates of sushi later they presented be with a going-away gift ö the entire set of manga called Monster by a manga artist that Miyazaki and I both like. Then Horita-san ordered a local shochu (liquor) made from potatoes called ćIsland Beauty.ä ćYou might not like it,ä he warned, ćit kinda stinks.ä Indeed, it did have a strong though not unpleasant odor and did taste a bit like natto (fermented beans). That was the first cup, of course. By the fourth or fifth cup, I wouldnāt have cared if it tasted like Tom DeLayās jockey shorts.



Hereās a shot of Horita after two or three glasses of the stuff. Around this time, he said (translating roughly), ćYāknow Jon, you have a really serious face and when I first met you I thought you were this real straight arrow guy who likes to study a lot. But somewhere along the lines, I realized that youāre a really weird American.ä He then said that my Japanese was really cute ö and sometimes really funny. I found this a little disconcerting because most of the time I wasnāt really trying to be funny. As the night progressed, Oshima and Miyazaki made fun of the size of Horitaās head. Miyazaki and I complained about George Bush and the idiots in government on both sides of the Pacific.



And of course, lots and ·



·lots of silly and rather embarrassing pictures were taken with the company digital camera. Friday morning, most members of the BIG crew were staggering around in a post-ćIsland Beautyä haze.

At work today, I was merrily reading about the myriad of corporate interests plotting again Tyrone Sloproth in Gravityās Rainbow, when I noticed that the single aging computer thatās connected to the web was free. After briefly checking my mail, I happened upon a startlingly bizarre news story that seemed like a continuation of Pynchonās tome. Apparently John Poindexter at the Total Information Awareness agency (recently renamed the slightly less Orwellian Terror Information Awareness agency) has unveiled the Pentagon Terror Market Program. No, itās not a correspondence course for the School of the Americas, itās a surreal free-marketeer attempt to make (more) money off of mayhem in the Middle East. A quote:

ćTraders would buy and sell futures contracts ÷ just like energy traders do now in betting on the future price of oil. But the contracts in this case would be based on what might happen in the Middle East in terms of economics, civil and military affairs or specific events, such as terrorist attacks. Holders of a futures contract that came true would collect the proceeds of traders who put money into the market but predicted wrong.ä

Not only does this seem like something thatās in ridiculously bad taste, but it seems largely irrelevant to, yāknow, finding and capturing terrorists. That is until the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency released a statement on Monday that justified the project in pseudo-mystical terms that Pynchon would surely adore.

ćDARPA said markets could reveal Īdispersed and even hidden information. Futures markets have proven themselves to be good at predicting such things as elections results; they are often better than expert opinions.ā

Iām gathering that DARPA is also organizing a crack team of tarot card readers too. You can read the projects strangely laconic web site here.

In other news, Oshima and I went up to Yamaga to present my promo. Three or four middle-aged men grunted their approval and that was about that. Afterwards, Oshima and I ate at one of her favorite takoyaki joints.

Also, I saw on TV the other day that there is a new freshly scrubbed pop-starlet named You. One at imagine spontaneous Abbott and Costello routines popping during the most inappropriate occasions·

A: Hello, thanks for coming to the Strom Thurmond funeral service. May I ask your name?

You: Iām You.

A: No, youāre not. Iām me. Youāre you.

You: Right. Iām You

A: No·. (usw.)

Itās noisy here in the Sumi residence in the morning. Around five or six in the morning, these mutant-sized crows start cackling at each other. Then some other bird ö Ruriko told me the name in Japanese but I havenāt a clue whatās it called in English ö starts making this weird whooping sound. And then the lions, tigers and bear in the adjacent zoo start roaring and growling. In response, the dogs in the neighborhood start barking. And finally, just as I begin to adjust to the rising noise level and return to a fitful sleep, the cicadas kick in. One of these bugs makes quite a racket; a swarm of them creates a deafening wail that is routinely used in Japanese movies to depict homicidal insanity. While half-asleep this morning, I had the distinct sense this insect cry was actually the sound of my own brain being grilled over a hibachi.

I guess such gruesome imagery is fitting cuz itās wicked hot here. Yesterday, I managed to prod Miyazaki-san into helping me with a shoot of my own. Anyone familiar with my films Tokai or Beautiful People will probably gather what I was shooting this go around -- static pictures of creepily banal architecture. It also gave me the chance to play with Rurikoās sexy new Panasonic DVX-100. For those of you who donāt wax poetic about lines of resolution or image compression, I spare you the details. But the DVX-100 is a pretty cool camera.

Perhaps it was the omnipresent whine of the cicadas that reminded me of my own cooking brain or maybe it was the fact that the back of my neck had turned beet red but two hours into the shoot I went out and bought a “500 hat. I donāt wear many hats. Iām not a Īhat person.ā But I dig this hat. One could say that the hat makes me look remarkably like Jean-Luc Goddard during his cameo in Breathless. One could also that the hat makes me look uncannily like my grandfather Crow who wore a similar hat while gardening. Whatever, the hat protected my head and looked pretty good doing it.

The shoot itself proved to be les than successful, thanks to the heat coupled with some less than satisfactory light. Basically, Miyazaki and I shot for a couple hours then cooled off for a bit, usually at one of Kumamotoās fine eating establishments. First we stopped by Mr. Donuts (which was in an American-sized mall called You Me Town where incidentally I also bought my cool new hat); later we ate Soba at a local noodle shop; then around three or so we ate at Mos Burger, which is probably the tastiest fast food joint Iāve ever eaten at; and then finally weary and sunburned, we ate yakiniku in one of Miyazaki favorite haunts which was packed full for some reason with spastic toddlers.

Basically, yakuniku is a platter of raw meat that you grill yourself. Miyazaki, who I think goes to this place something like every week, didnāt even look at the menu when he ordered for the two of us. Soon after, plate upon plate of meat arrived at our table, each more gruesome-looking than the last. When a plate full of raw tripe, intestines, kidneys, and livers arrived, I was dreading that next plate might have nothing but eyeballs and testicles. Though Miyazaki gently mocked my American culinary prudery, I was too tired to rise to the challenge. I stuck with the cuts of meat found on the exterior of the cow and ordered another beer as he merrily munched on charred tripe.

Anyway, most of the week was spent edited that promo for Yamaga. I managed to dredge up some taiko music that not only perfectly fit the length of the piece but also gave it a sense of drama and mystery. Once the timing was set, which took some doing, I had a blast trying out all these effects and techniques Iāve never had reason to use before. Iāll spare the grizzly details, but by Thursday I felt I had edited together a pretty hip little piece. Of course, on Friday after three days of editing, Oshima finally managed to get a hold of the TV station that was going to air the promo and was told that the promo had to be 42 seconds and not 45 as we were originally told. After uttering a number of curses in two languages, I rearranged some shots, tossed a few more and managed to pull something together that was pretty good but not as kick-ass as the 45-second directors cut.

Fortunately, the day ended with me pleasantly inebreated and chatting with models. Yamano-san, who was the cameraman for a shoot I was on in June, was throwing his famous annual summer festival party and all attendants were required to sport festival wear ö either yukatas or happi coats. Oshima, who was the other representative for BIG, managed to dig up a shockingly gaudy happi for me to wear ö it looked more like a soccer uniform than a piece of traditional Japanese garb. As we were driving to the party, she told me that Yamanoās wife was a hairdresser so I would be able rub elbows with both film and fashion related people. Basically, the beautiful people of Kumamoto, as such. Oshima and Yamano whisked me around and introduced me to lots people including a commercial director who lived in Australia and who spoke pretty good English, a film enthusiast with a moustache whose name I never really caught, and a pair of models named Misa and Maki. Unlike their American counterparts, these models werenāt tall, gaunt or hollow-cheeked. Instead, they looked like Japanese versions of the girl-next-door albeit with preternaturally good skin. They both thought it was cool that I lived in Los Angeles (compared to the plank stares I got when I said I was from Ohio eight years ago in Ibaraki) and they complained about modeling in Kyushu. I hoped that they would dish out about a seedy-side of Kumamoto filled with drugs, violence and red velour but sadly none was forth coming. Later, I talked to local TV reporter about New York City. She later proceeded to get rip-roarinā drunk and talk on and on to Yamano-sanās wife about hair care tips. Of course, I was enjoying a bit of the drink myself. Eager to rid myself of the dayās stresses and annoyances, I made a beeline for the beer tap and made several return visits while stuffing myself with yakitori, grilled shrimp and edamame. Yamano soon started filling my glass with Shoju ö a rice alcohol somewhere between sake and kerosene. Around midnight, when I spotted Oshima looking bored ö she doesnāt drink because of migraines ö I bayed the models and all farewell and went home in my happi coat.

Itās Monday and Iām not at work. Today is a holiday in honor of the ocean. In America, all our holidays are either political or religious ö we honor dead presidents, dead soldiers, and the all-but-dead labor movement. In Japan, they natural cycles of life such as a holiday for the spring equinox, the autumn equinox and old people.

Well itās still raining here. Like a bad case of the clap or the Strom Thurmond, the rainy season just wonāt die. This weekend weāve been drenched with such a massive amount of rain that the train system was shut down and 16 people died south of here from a freak mudslide. Itās probably too soon to start gathering pairs of animals and to order a houseboat but itās starting to feel like that time is near. One of joys of rainy season is the fact that mold seems to grow on every flat surface. Thereās a corner in the tatami room Iām living in that seems to grow little civilizations of mold every two or three days, only to fall to the apocalypse of a damp rag and the Japanese equivalent of Windex.

I learned this week that I am susceptible to ćKourabyouä or AC Sickness. See, with electricity being insanely expensive and all here, they have these little tiny air con units that only outfitted to cool a single room and they are only used a few hours a day when the heat becomes so unbearably awful that everyone threatens to dissolve into great puddles of sweat. The problem is that these little AC thingies are great breeding grounds for all sorts of nasties and when the units are turned on these little nasties get spewed out into the air. Because of Ma Sumiās mostly macrobiotic home cookinā and a regular regime of nose washing (warm tea, add a pinch salt, then snort the concoct up your nose like you were Margo Kidder in a 1970s beach party), Iāve been remarkably free of allergies in spite of the presence of an emotionally needy dog named Hachi. That was until this week when while plowing through Pynchon at work, I started feeling all dizzy and phlegmy. Later while driving out to location scout in Yamaga with Horita-san, I complained that I felt like crap. He casually mentioned that everyone who sat at my desk developed some form of ćKourabyou.ä The building manager is not especially fussy about duct cleanliness and my desk in fact directly faces the main vent. When I mentioned my problem to Rurikoās mom, who is a fellow sufferer, she immediately made a big steaming macrobiotic potion of daikon radish and ginger ö which tastes about as good as it sounds ö and an extra round of nose washing. For now, it seems to be doing the trick.

On Tuesday, Ruriko and I had a rather ludicrous argument about post-structural theory. I accused her of not understanding Barthesian theory; she argued that I was not articulating myself clearly (a fair complaint, but you try to discuss Barthes in Japanese) and that I was a big poophead. Weāve more or less resolved the Barthesian theory issue, but the poophead issue remains a topic of debate.

But the big news of the week was that I directed with relative success that promo bit for the resort town of Yamaga. While the budget for this shoot was small and the crew limited to the staff of BIG, this marks the first time that I shot in a location where I wasnāt looking over my shoulder for the police. In fact, at one point I had the banners of a famous local kabuki house rearranged and the street in front wetted down by a band of city officials.

My big concern was whether or not Oshima, my producer for the shoot and a native of Yamaga, could cough up a cute girl. Yamaga was famous for its monochromatic traditional architecture and its touro festival featuring young maidens sporting pink kimonos and gold colored paper lanterns atop their heads. Horita-san said that the promo bit should be like an exotic fantasy directed towards the jaded city-folk of Fukuoka. Right, I thought, Iāll contrast the recto-linear lines of the architecture with the curvy pinkness of the touro maidens, culminating with a reasonably attractive lass flashing an enigmatic smile at the camera. Early this week, Oshima told me that the city government couldnāt find any cute girls with their own head lanterns, but they did find three who were ćkinda ugly.ä Christ, I thought, there has to be one or two girls per generation born with the gift of beauty in the town. My mind raced back to a painful conversation at the town hall in Ogawa some nine years ago with a pair of civil servants who sat near my desk. They pointed out one woman after the next who worked at the city hall who they at one point or another had boinked. Most had crooked gold teeth, weather-beaten skin and that unfortunate frizzy hair-do that women pushing 40 inevitably get in some countries. If guys like that are calling the only three touro maidens available in the whole frigginā town ćkinda uglyä, Iām screwed. Fortunately, the guys at the Yamaga city hall not only proved to be harsh judges of beauty ö the three women looked just fine ö but they managed to dredge up a real babe for the close up.

Up until four or so in the afternoon, things were going swimmingly, most of my storyboard was shot, and Oshima came through with the touro maidens. Then disaster struck. We were shooting in a public hot spa of sorts where you can wile away the time soaking your feet in spring water. We had set up the camera just the way I liked it, when about two dozen Chinese tourists came in and camped out. In spite of the camera, the lights, and me glowering at them, the group ignored us and had a grand old time. While I would have been happy to forcibly remove them from the site, Horita seemed inclined to wait them out. Then the camera crapped out.
And then it rained. Hard. Since the touro lanterns are made of paper, shooting seemed impossible. Things worked out fine in the end. We gave up on the foot spa place when the Chinese tourists started breaking out picnic lunches, and went to the next location. We dug up a substitute camera and a stunt touro that could brave the rain. I saw the footage on Friday and it looks all pretty good. The stuff we shot in the rain looks great. Now Iāve got to edit it all.

If I wrote this missive yesterday, I would have said something like the rainy season is basically over and Iām spending most of the day feeling my sweat pooling in my socks. My sweat may be still pooling in my socks, but itās raining outside something fierce. The backyard, as such, of the Sumiās is flooded and the tram has shut down. It seems that Ruriko and I are stuck in the house for the day. Despite the rain, thereās some sort of awful karaoke contest going on right now in the neighboring zoo. Someone is doing his best to bludgeon ćLet It Be.ä Iām trying to ignore, listening to The Red Hot Chili Peppers of all things. Yesterday, Ruriko and her cousinās daughter and I were rooting around in Sumiās storage room, where I discovered Rurikoās college CD collection. Apparently she listened to exactly the same stuff I did back then. There are lots of Dinosaur Jr., Butthole Surfers, Sonic Youth albums here, and even a Nirvana disc too. Of course, after our respective college careers our musical tastes radically diverged. I started listening to Japanese neo-lounge and she started listening to stuff that sounds like surgery without anesthetic.

Rurikoās mom just brought in a slice of melon. Yesterday, we started an English conversation class with Mrs. Sumi and one of her old friends. Even though the lesson seemed painfully self-conscious at the time, both women seemed to really enjoy learning English. Mrs. Sumi is now waltzing about the house tossing out English phrases to me and to Ruriko, whoās really embarrassed about the whole thing.

Anyway, the week started off slowly. Most of the planned shoots have been done for the immediate short term and most of the staff at BIG was busying themselves for the next spate of shoots next week. On top of that, Ruriko was off for a few days with her aunt and her cousin Chakko to the dubiously named Jigoku Onsen (Hell Hot Spring) over by Mt. Aso.

I had little to do but study Kanji and read Pynchon. I just got up to the part where Tyrone Slothrop pied a racist US army major from a hot air balloon when Rurikoās dad called me up to go hang out. When I arrived at his office, there was a guy with a punch perm and lots of gold jewelry, sucking on a toothpick seated on the couch. I forgot his name but apparently he was the event coordinator for a traveling comedy show that Mr. Sumi was promoting for Kumamoto. When we were introduced he almost immediately asked me where my ancestors were from. When I responded, ćEngland and Scotland mostly,ä he said ćGood. Like Bush.ä When we went out to eat yakitori together, he talked about the wonders of his hometown Osaka, how he would never visit America because there are too many guns, and how the Chinese were always dishonest. He asked me what I thought of Bush, I said that he was an idiot and only interested in helping the rich (which, by the way, is not a particularly controversial opinion in Japan) he seemed vaguely disappointed. When I refused to agree with him that the Hispanics were mucking up America, he seemed more disappointed. Then, as we were all getting chummy, he mentioned that he would never let his daughter marry a foreigner. Later, Mr. Sumi and I parted ways with Mr. Punchperm guy and went to go drink in a bar with only six seats and wall full of expensive bourbon, where we obliquely ridiculed the guy. As I think about that night, I sort of think that Mr. Sumi intentionally invited me along that night to rile up Mr. Punchperm, who he spent three long nights wining and dining and listening to his racist platitudes.

On Wednesday after a fair amount of prodding, Horita-san let me take a crack at editing that Gambaru Zo ad that I shot last week. Aside from Horita, there are two other BIG directors I deal with regularly. One is Miyazaki-san, who is really sharp. When he mentioned that his favorite author was Abe Kobo and that he was looking to read some American books, I recommended Pynchonās The Crying of Lot 49. He immediately bought it and then lent me the first volume from his favorite comic book series ć20th Century Boys.ä Iāve about half of it and in spite of the fact thatās itās peppered with Tokyo slang Iām finding it really addictive. The other is Oshima-san, who I think is still a bit cowed by my foreign presence. She was assigned to help me with the editing. When I banged out a version of the 15-spot that I thought was pretty good, she didnāt say anything but clearly she thought that something was wrong. When Horita saw it, he said that the version was decently edited but wrong for the concept of the campaign and offered a few suggestions. The following day, I re-edited the spot and Oshima was quiet in that somethingās-wrong-but-Iām-too-shy-to-tell-you-what sort of way. After about a half-an-hour, she gets Miyazaki who tells me that thereās supposed to be text in the spot too. OK, thatās the first Iāve heard of that. Together with Miyazaki and Oshima, we eventually hashed together a commercial that not only features most of my editing choices, and a lot of my photography, but also a half-second shot of the back of my head. Anyway, assuming the TV high mucky-mucks like the piece, it should be airing in the next week or so.

Itās a little sobering to think that after all the pain, effort, and money that I spent on my films while in Cal Arts, this 15 second piece that took two and a half days to throw together will be seen by more people than all the others combined.

Boy, itās hot and humid today. I think that the rainy season is beginning to loosen it death-grip on the skies.

Yesterday, Ruriko and I did what we usually do during the weekends ö take the tram into town and hang out. Last week, we bought a book listing all of Kumamotoās numerous coffee shops and have since been exploring. Thereās a few Japanese-themed shops, complete with tatami mats and green tea, several generically hip shops featuring Ikea-esque feature and some tastefully displayed artifacts from the 1970s, numerous really dull shops catering to housewives with sweet-toothes (sweet teeth?), and at least one Chinese coffee shop, not to mention the dozen or so Starbucks and Starbucks-clones dotting the town.

Yesterday, I suppose I was in sort of a pissy mood, largely because it took Ruriko and hour and half to get ready to go out. After I needled Ruriko a bit, her mom burst in with some brown rice muffins and a can of organic apple juice. Whenever men get grumpy, Mrs. Sumi later told Ruriko, give them food. As much as Iād like to dispute her logic, I must admit I did shut up and gobble down the muffins. And I was less grumpy afterwards. Iām somewhat appalled at my own complete lack of guile.

Anyway, we spent much of the time in Shimotori, one of two shopping streets downtown. Ruriko bought a book on Zen, and I bought a compilation CD of old Stax soul tunes. We were hanging out at coffee shop that was old, grungy, and full of character called Hands talking about kanji when the cell phone went off. (Oh yeah, itās like really easy to rent a cell phone here. Of course, my cell is about as basic as you can get, with none of the cool extras like net access, MP3 players or Video players.) Rurikoās parents were in the neighbor and asked us over to her dadās office. Soon afterwards we went to another coffee shop run by a friend of her dad. Did I mention that Rurikoās dad knows everyone in this town? The proprietor who is named Sonomura-san not only owns the shop, which was decorated with various items of film memorabilia, but is also a film history lecturer at Kumamoto University, and apparently is a film critic who shows up on TV now and then. Soon after we ordered, he came right over to us and launched into a discussion about how he recently visited Ozuās and Mizoguchiās graves located in Kamakura and Kyoto respectively. We talked some and I mentioned that I was not only a fan of Ozu and Mizoguchi but also of Naruse Mikio (at least what Iāve seen of his work). I think that Sonomura nearly wept with delight that a foreigner -- and a relatively young one at that -- heard of Naruse. The conversation quickly descended into an all out geek-fest. He knew the names all of the characters in Seven Samurai, the names and years of all the movies Hara Setsuko appeared in, and intimate details of director Keisuke Kinoshitaās life story. The whole time he was unrelentingly staring at me. Ruriko and her family might as well as not have existed. Fortunately, I knew enough about Japanese cinema to sound somewhat intelligent. After an hour or so, we managed to disengage. While I respect and admire his passion for Japanese cinema (Iām sure Iāve bored people with my interest in the same) I did sort of feel like I was on the receiving end of a fire hose for an hour. Later that night, we went to a video store and rented one of the Kinoshita films that Sonomura recommended.

I realized the other day that I havenāt had a conversation in English in about two weeks.

Most of this week has been pretty quiet here. On Monday, I aided a shoot for a documentary about working mothers in Kumamoto prefecture. We interviewed a few people in Kumamoto proper and then packed up our gear and drove to a mountain village called Yabe, which is famous for an ancient stone bridge and for its tea, where we interviewed the volunteers at a sort of daycare establishment. One young girl was deathly afraid of facial hair, which proved to be a problem because half of our crew was bearded.

On Wednesday, after a slow day where I spent much of it trying valiantly to read Haruki Murakamiās South of the Border, West of the Sun in Japanese (and after a week and a half, Iāve gotten all of five pages into the book), Rurikoās dad called me up and told me to drop his office. Iāve been told by Horita-san that Mr. Sumi is probably the biggest freelance producer in Kumamoto, which was a huge surprise to Ruriko who tends to think of him as just ćdad.ä He favors flashy suits (by Japanese standards) and bears a freakish resemblance to Japanese television comedian Tamori. His office is a former bar and he still plies his clients with drinks. When I got there, I was met by Mr. Sumi and two executives with a local radio station who look like theyāve knocked back more than a few beers. Mr. Sumi served me a beer and introduced me as his son-in-law (even though the whole marriage thing hasnāt officially happened yet). Later, Mr. Sumi took me to his favorite Curry Rice joint. He called everyone working there by their first name, bummed cigarettes off the main chef, and poured himself and me a beer from the restaurantās tap. Clearly, I thought, heās a regular. We bonded in a manly fasion over beer and gyoza and curry.

On Thursday, I was the cameraman for a TV commercial. One of the local TV stations is sponsoring a vaguely desperate sounding spot called ćKumamoto Gambetteä ö which exhorts the denizens of the prefecture to continue to struggle on in spite of the grim economy that has harried the country for the past decade. In this go around, the ad focuses on the manly exploits of a river rafting outfit. Horita-san approached me about this last week saying
ćDo you want to man a camera for a shoot?ä
ćSureä, I said.
ćCan you swim?ä
ćYeah, sure.ä (Which is a lie.)
ćOK, youāre going to shoot in the boat. Itās really dangerous. Lots of people have died.ä
Not being familiar with Horita-sanās mordant sense of humor, I was thinking that I might have signed on to a Deliverance-style trip of raging white rapids, jagged rocks, and amorous hillbillies. But when he showed me the brochure showing pictures of old people and toddlers beaming with good cheer, I figured that it was pretty safe. A bigger worry, it turns out was the weather, which has been generally miserable for the whole week. ćDonāt worry,ä he said. ćIām lucky. It has never rained during one of my shoots.ä True to his word, during the hour or so of the boat ride not only did it not rain, but the sun peaked out of the clouds. When I returned I realized that I had a very incongruous-looking sunburn on my nose and back of my neck. Though the scenery was beautiful and rapids thrilling, I really couldnāt pay attention to it because trying to get a good shot while not to getting the camera wet. Which proved to me something of a feat. I spent most of the time in the front of the ship sitting with a rather bemused family wondering why there was foreigner pointing an expensive looking camera at them. While that spot afforded a good point of view to shoot, it was also a prime place to get soused by the rapids. I came off the boat, wet and burned at the same time.

Hello all. Itās raining again here. When I first came to Japan last week from Los Angeles, I thought, ćOh hey rain.ä Now the novelty has worn off and like every other person in Japan, Iām griping about the weather.

Anyway, itās been a busy week. On Tuesday, I went to location scout in a resort town north of Kumamoto called Yamaga. Itās primarily famous for a massive festival it holds in August where over a thousand young women don pink kimonos and strapped golden lanterns to their heads. It used to be stipulated that the participants must be virgins, but in recent years that rule has apparently been quietly dropped. Another attraction is that unlike much of Japan, which looks like a bad stretch of East Berlin meeting a bad stretch of Van Nuys, Yamaga has kept much of its original charm ö traditional kura buildings line the main streets and a famed kabuki theater has been resorted to its original luster. I was being taken there by Oshima-san, a fellow BIG employee and Yamaga resident, who the previous day matter-of-factly informed me that their were going to shoot a 45 promo bit for the town and that Iād be directing it. In spite of the crappy weather (rain again), we scouted the town and I took notes.

When we got to Hachisendaiza ö the kabuki theater ö we learned that the local government was holding an anti-bosozoku event. Bosozoku are largely thuggish orange-haired high-school dropouts who annoy everyone with their improbably loud motorbikes, and who like the Hellās Angels in the States have been associated with all sorts of deviant and criminal behavior. Anyway, we were ushered into the theater toting a bunch of free anti-bosozoku, where I noticed that the audience consisted of a) old people b) cops c) glassy-eyed high school students who were dragged to this event for Their Own Good. The event opened with a Cops-style video of bosozoku terrorizing the streets of Kumamoto. A couple minutes into it, the video feed went out, and the audience was left listening to a cacophony of roaring motorcycling, police sirens, screams, and at least one heart-rending dog yelp with no idea what was going on. We decided that it was a good time to leave.

When I got home, my head throbbed from excessive Japanese-use, so I vegged out in front of the TV. I saw a ćrap contestä on one show, which had about as much funk as your average Christmas office party. It would have been better described as a make-the-lyrics-up-as-you-go-along karaoke contest. One memorable contestant simply issued forth a string of rude words set to John Lennonās Imagine. Ex.: ćSheās ugly. Big tits. Fart.ä Later on the news, there was a news story where a jilted lover doused his hostess ex-girlfriend with gasoline, and set the entire hostess bar where she worked alight. Parts of downtown still smell a bit acrid as a result. In other news, ćThe Great Sasukeä, the Mexican-wrestling mask wearing member of the Diet hailing from Iwate prefecture, vehemently denied that he was a male porn star before taking a turn into politics. Who could tell, I thought, he was wearing a mask.

The next day was a rare break in the gloom of the rainy season. Horita-san, my boss, leapt at the opportunity and scheduled a shoot TV commercial for a land development company. After driving hither and yon to collect needed equipment, the employees of BIG along with a cameraman named Yamano (and who was classmates with Miike Takashi at Imamura Shoheiās film school), gathered in the parking lot of the companyās headquarters. The main task of the day was a time-lapse shot of the building ö an over-designed Ando Tadanobu knock-off ö as the sun set. I struggled for most of the shoot to trying fight the hazy of brain fatigue and look like I understood what was going on. Overall, the shoot went fine until the area was beset by bats that were hunting for bugs in the adjacent rice fields.

Call time for the next day (Thursday) was at 4:15 am, which considering that I managed to drag myself home for the previous nightās shoot at 10:30 or so at night, was pretty brutal. Bleary-eyed, we all choked down some horribly artificial tasting convenience store sandwiches and prepared for another time-lapse shot of the building as dawn broke. After a few more shots, including one where the camera swept over the employeeās of the company on a crane, we packed up and headed for the hills in search of a lonely stretch of mountain road. With the camera set up on the yellow line, we waited for the clouds to line up in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. The crew talked at length about the merits of Tora Tora Tora over Pearl Harbor and Horita regaled us with a story about working with Kurosawa. One day, Kurosawa had Horita corral 5,000 extras in full costume for six hours atop Mt. Aso before canceling the dayās shoot because he didnāt like the shape of the clouds. Fortunately, Horita wasnāt as stubborn at that great master, and we wrapped by noon.

On the way back from shoot, we ate the curiously named Ringer Hut, a sit-down fast-food establishment that reportedly sells Nagasaki style noodles. The first thing I noticed about the place was the pitchers of water on each table, presumably to counteract the mouth-scalding amount of MSG in the food. The restaurant puts the patron in an American style war of attrition with his or her meal, a rarity for Japan. In this case, my foes included a tub of noodles, a bucket of fried rice and a dozen very nasty fried dumplings. In the end, it turned into a pyrrhic victory for me, as I felt like crap for the rest of the day.

Yesterday, everyone looked haggard at the office and Horita let me leave at noon. I spent much of the day reading Gravityās Rainbow, which after spending a week struggling to read office memos and to understand Kumamotoās thick dialect, zipped by like a dream. That night, Ruriko and I saw Shinoda Masahiroās latest Spy Sorge, which was a flawed but well meaning flick which unfortunately coarsened to a muddleheaded pacifist yarn that seemed more na•ve that profound. When John Lennonās Imagine faded in over the credits, I sort of hoped it was the version I saw on TV earlier in the week. ćHave more tea, sir. Vomit.ä

I just spent the last two or so hours watching Japanese TV. One program featured a segment that pulled drunken salarymen off the street after the bars closed and put them in a sort of ad hoc quiz show. At one point an announcer drilled a sloshed fat guy in an ill-fitting suit who had downed eight beers that night about the origin of turmeric. The fat guy retorted that his house burned down a few days before and he didnāt have a place to sleep. On the news, the big story was that family of four in Fukuoka was mysterious murdered and their bodies were dumped in the ocean. The other big story was that soccer player and Sting impersonator David Beckham stopped by Japan to shoot a commercial where he was beset upon by half the female population of Tokyo. The announcers all clucked about how cool he looked and about how much then looked forward to watching his commercial. The other day, on an Entertainment Tonight like show I saw a PR puff piece about a Canon digital camera commercial that was in production. It strikes me as depressingly inevitable that there would be hype about something that is supposed to hype something else.

Today was another low-key sort of day. The highpoint was probably going to a massive “100 (85 cents) shop. I when there to pick up a Japanese style notebook so I could practice Kanji but they sold everything there: Potato chips, photo albums, underwear, plush toys, Halloween masks, ashtrays, cocktail glasses, electrical cords, Japanese-English dictionaries, soda and (Japan being Japan) cheesecake DVDs all for “100.

Then me and Ruriko went to a Starbucks knockoff downtown (there are, by the way, three ö count 'em ö three Starbucks in a two block radius of downtown) where I read an article about the parallels between the Iraq war and Frank Herbertās Dune in the latest issue of The Believer. As I looked up from my magazine, I realized that every single table in the shop was populated with women in their early 30s who were either studying English or composing email messages on their cell phones

It's a lazy Saturday morning here in Kumamoto. I'm sitting on a tatami mat next to a shoji screen. It's hot and cloyingly humid and the smell of soumen is emanating from the kitchen. It would all feel very Japanese if it weren't for the sound of lion roars and monkey squeals. Rurikoās house abuts the Kumamoto zoo.

Anyway, I started work at a small production company that in spite of (or perhaps because of) its size is called BIG. It's located on two floors of a narrow office building adjacent from the Kumamoto city central police station, which looks less like an example of municipal architecture and more like it ought to be ferrying Darth Vader to the Death Star. Down the street is a store called "Sweet Camel" which advertises that it sells "Jeans for Aggressive Women." On Thursday, the day I started working at BIG, a typhoon blew in from the Sea of China. My boss, Horita san, who looks vaguely like Beat Takeshi and who worked on the set of Kurosawa Akira's Ran when it was shot near Kumamoto, seemed eager to show me off to his business associates. As I struggled to follow one guy who was discussing in heavily accented Japanese his plans to hire the handicapped, I became increasingly worried that the building would blow over from the gusts of wind. The floor shook, the windows rattled and stuff (hopefully not asbestos) rained down from the tiles above. And everyone largely ignored the whole thing. I tried to look attentive, by staring at the guy's lips and not at the trees branches, bits of garage and small children flying past the window.

I haven't left yet. I'm hurriedly trying to clean and do all the stupid things you have to do before you travel. But I did find this great little Japanese web site dedicated to making art out of cocktail weenies.

Well, it's the end of an era. The other day, I lit a few candles, places some fake flowers a few polaroids around my computer, bought some champagne and invited a few friends over. Yes, I was holding a funeral of sorts for all the footage of my thesis film Beautiful People, which with a few mouse clicks, I flushed from my hard drives. 100 gigs now gone and my film, now completely finished after a year and half's worth of labor and way too much money, is on a half dozen mini DVs, 2 DV-CAM masters, and 1 DigiBeta tape. A certain poignancy lingered in the air for a moment, but then when drank some of the cheap champagne and watched Jackie Chan's Police Story.

In other news, I'm going back to Japan for a few months to be with Ruriko in Kumamoto and work in a production house there. Stay tuned to this blog for more ranting, complaining and witty cultural insights.