Before We Get All Weepy...

May 15th proved to be an unexpected Judgement Day for Jerry Falwell, the guy who (along with Pat Robertson) has had his flag firmly planted in America's moral high ground since the early 80's. You gotta give props to his motivation: he succeeded in getting droves of conservatives to register to vote, arguably delivering Reagan his second term. He was an old-fashioned bible-thumper who once offered wheelchair-bound publisher Larry Flint a trip out to the woodshed for a lil' ass-whoopin'. He shamelessly chartered new territory in xenophobia, misogyny, hatred, and sheer batshit-craziness, most notably blaming feminists for 9/11 and "outing" the Teletubbies. He always failed to see the humor in just about everything: politics, life, lifestyles, the country, and himself.

"I believe America is in imminent peril. We are rotting from within," he once said. Fair enough. On the morning of Tuesday May 15th, as Jerry lay dead and "un-raptured" on his office floor, it began rotting just a little less.

Memorable quotes:

On 9/11: "I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America, I point the finger in their face and say: you helped this happen."


On his flock: "Christians, like slaves and soldiers, ask no questions."


On how to win a woman's heart: "I listen to feminists and all these radical gals... These women just need a man in the house. That's all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they're mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They're sexist. They hate men; that's their problem."

On rights: "I have a Divine Mandate to go into the halls of Congress and fight for laws that will save America."

On health: "AIDS is not just God's punishment for homosexuals; it is God's punishment for the society that tolerates homosexuals."

On Tinky-Winky's little secret: "He is purple -- the gay-pride color; and his antenna is shaped like a triangle -- the gay-pride symbol. "

On the Answer to Everything: "When the nation is on its knees, the only normal and natural and spiritual thing to do is what we ought to be doing all the time -- calling upon God."

On bringing people together: "Muhammad was a terrorist."

And didja know...

He coined the nickname "Ellen Degenerate".

He opposed nuclear disarmamaent.

He proposed that creationism be taught in public school science classes, and later, that public schools be abolished altogether.

He quietly accepted $3.5 million from Korean cult messiah Sun Myung Moon to bail Liberty University out from massive debts. He then urged his friend Preseident Reagan to pardon Moon's tax evasion conviction.

When George W. Bush took office as President in 2001 and established a White House Office of Faith-Based and Community Initiatives, Falwell said it was a great idea, so long as Muslim groups were disqualified from receiving any money.

He had preached that racial segregation was the Lord's will.

He had supported South African apartheid, and opposed Mandela's release from prison.

He once announced that the long-awaited "antichrist" would be Jewish.

lw_blog@yahoo.com

I Prefer His Earlier, Funnier Psychotic Rants

Can't post here? Send questions or comments to lw_blog@yahoo.com

It doesn't need to be said that there is absolutely nothing amusing about the death of 33 teachers and students in a university shooting spree perpetrated by a deeply troubled young man. But if there were, it would be this one-act play. Until the last page, it seems dark, absurd, and maybe just a bit funny. I envisioned Larry David as the stepfather, caught up in pile of misinterpreted intentions and insane accusations. And then the story just gets, well, sick, once you realize that comedy isn't exactly what Cho had had in mind.

Still, I have a genuine curiosity as to how Cho Seung-Hui's work will play out when performed in earnest by a group of actors. Given the cynicism and kitsch-humor with which enthusiasts sometimes treat mass-murderers (there are fan pages for the likes of Charles Manson and Eric and Dylan) is it crazy to suggest that it's only a matter of time before someone actually performs this thing? Sets, lighting, direction; perhaps in the round. Minimal props. The mind boggles.

Here's my advice to the first smartass university improv comedy troupe cynical enough to actually try putting together a real production at the student union: when the local news team arrives and the morality police emerge from their living rooms and churches to condemn your insensitivity, tell them it's all in the name of attempting to comprehend the troubled mind of a killer, so that we can grasp, deeply, what is at the very core of this national tragedy; we laugh so that we may cry.

And if that doesn't work, just tell them hey, it's your first-amendment right.

Read the play here: http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/years/2007/0417071vtech1.html

Lend your thoughts and prayers here: http://www.vt.edu/

And, until we have the ability to somehow eradicate chemical imbalances and delusional paranoia from the minds of potential killers before they strike, you can contact these folks-- http://www.nra.org/ --for any questions or complaints. Because, honestly, the only aspect of this tragedy that could have been truly avoided was the availability of the Smith and Wesson 9mm, which, having been mixed with a heaping helping of crazy, played an essential role in ending all those lives. Yeah, I know what you're gonna say: Guns don't kill people, people kill people. But bullets come from guns, and bullets tear up internal organs. And hopes, and dreams, and entire families. And you can get guns and bullets at the corner store these days, thanks to certain powerful people. Speaking of which...

In other news, the similarities between GWB and Nixon are becoming increasingly uncanny; it causes one to wonder how (or if) our current president would have survived Woodward and Bernstein. Remember when the press used to ask questions? Those were the days.

So as the networks continue to squeeze every last drop of pathos from the Virginia Tech tragedy, as they jockey for position and compete for camera angles all over the campus, scrambling to score interview time with the ex-girlfriend of the guy who shared a room with the killer for, like, half a semester, it's easy to forget what journalists have not been doing. Tom Tomorrow reminds us in this recent The Modern World.

For a larger image: http://www.salon.com/comics/tomo/2007/04/16/tomo/index1.html

Idle Hands are the Devil's Playthings

Self-portaits.

The Truth's Liberal Bias

At every Annual White House Correspondents' Dinner, comedians poke fun at the president while he sits just a few seats away, being a good sport, cracking a smile now and then. This time, the humor was especially biting and the president's laughter was just about non-existent. Satirist Stephen Colbert delivered some great jokes and tore Bush a new one on live TV. Here's a "greatest hits" of the routine that pissed off El Presidente.


A link to the video:
http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=364x1062761

Wow. Wow, what an honor. The White House correspondents' dinner. To actually sit here, at the same table with my hero, George W. Bush, to be this close to the man. I feel like I'm dreaming. Somebody pinch me. You know what? I'm a pretty sound sleeper -- that may not be enough. Somebody shoot me in the face. (--a reference to amateur marksman Dick Cheney)

I believe in democracy. I believe democracy is our greatest export. At least until China figures out a way to stamp it out of plastic for three cents a unit.

(Chinese) Ambassador Zhou Wenzhong, welcome. Your great country makes our Happy Meals possible.

I believe the government that governs best is the government that governs least. And by these standards, we have set up a fabulous government in Iraq.

Now, I know there are some polls out there saying this man has a 32% approval rating. But guys like us, we don't pay attention to the polls. We know that polls are just a collection of statistics that reflect what people are thinking in "reality." And reality has a well-known liberal bias.

So don't pay attention to the approval ratings that say 68% of Americans disapprove of the job this man is doing. I ask you this, does that not also logically mean that 68% approve of the job he's not doing? Think about it. I haven't.

I stand by this man. I stand by this man because he stands for things. Not only for things, he stands on things. Things like aircraft carriers and rubble and recently flooded city squares. And that sends a strong message, that no matter what happens to America, she will always rebound -- with the most powerfully staged photo ops in the world.

The greatest thing about this man is he's steady. You know where he stands. He believes the same thing Wednesday that he believed on Monday, no matter what happened Tuesday.

As excited as I am to be here with the president, I am appalled to be surrounded by the liberal media that is destroying America, with the exception of Fox News. Fox News gives you both sides of every story: the president's side, and the vice president's side.

But, listen, let's review the rules. Here's how it works: the president makes decisions. He's the decider. The press secretary announces those decisions, and you people of the press type those decisions down. Make, announce, type. Just put 'em through a spell check and go home. Get to know your family again. Make love to your wife. Write that novel you got kicking around in your head. You know, the one about the intrepid Washington reporter with the courage to stand up to the administration. You know - fiction.

"Oh, they're just rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic." First of all, that is a terrible metaphor. This administration is not sinking. This administration is soaring. If anything, they are rearranging the deck chairs on the Hindenburg.

Mayor Nagin! Mayor Nagin is here from New Orleans, the chocolate city! Yeah, give it up. Mayor Nagin, I'd like to welcome you to Washington, D.C., the chocolate city with a marshmallow center. And a graham cracker crust of corruption. It's a Mallomar, I guess is what I'm describing, a seasonal cookie.

Questions? Comments? Post here or send mail to: lw_blog@yahoo.com

Mr. Y's Fired

That is to say, Mr. Y's contract won't be renewed this coming school year. No one ever really gets fired in Japan, at least not in the sense of "I want you out of here by lunchtime. Say your goodbyes and try not to steal anything." Here, the firing is never quite as forthcoming; it's no public spectacle. A Security guard doesn't monitor you from a distance as you clean out your desk, making sure you don't snap and try to bury a stapler in middle-management's head. No one offers tight-lipped nods of pity and awkward words of consolation, while others with a weaker immunity to unease keep their eyes on their monitors and pretend to be doing something else.

No, if you're fired in Japan, you won't ever have to hang your head low as office supplies shift around in your in your milk crate with each humiliating stride in your walk towards the exit. Very little about being let go actually becomes verbalized, openly discussed, or dwelled upon, save the initial announcement to the "firee". Like other forms of ugliness in Japan, the bad news is outwardly ignored and concealed by faux interest in the business at hand. In an office where twenty or thirty teachers are rowed and columned up, desks huddled together, upon a glance you'd never be able to tell a bomb has been dropped; all seems fine, save the mental image of Mr. Y's getting canned hovering about eight feet above the floor like cigarette-smog at an AA meeting. Everyone keeps their heads down and avoids inhaling.

Without the liberty of talking about the problem, Mr. Y's only option is to internalize all of the emotion; when life deals certain types of bad luck (firing, divorce, infidelity) sometimes even close friends cannot be turned to for consolation. To put someone out by dumping your personal problems on them is still cultural faux-pas in some circles; there exists a low threshold of tolerance for negative or tragic news. Getting it out in the open as a therpeutic strategy is unheard of for many. Swallowing your medicine and taking it like a man by exercising acceptance is not seen as maikng yourself a candidate redemption, but what's expected of you whether you're canned, canonized, promoted, or just plain ignored. Some around the office seem to welcome the drama, as it's giving them more than ample watercooler conversation to gnaw on. Apparently a lot of mileage can be gotten out of a firing.

Today, as I saw Mr. Y going about his business as if he wasn't full of worry, embarrassment and reflection, I recalled an old friend of mine, a Japanese woman. She had struggled with disappointment after disappointment within a short-lived marriage and had finally put her foot down despite ostricization and threats from both her own family and the (ex-)in-laws. She had told me she would be unable to inform her closest friends of her quitting the marriage until it was a done deal on paper. Even then, she'd said, it would be difficult.

It was explained to me in this way: "Some Japanese people enjoy hearing bad news. It makes them feel good and they love to talk about it. It is gossip. It is very Japanese."

Well, gossip is very a lot of places. The Japanese part is the charade that ensues, the belief that not confronting the problem is the surest way to make it go away.

Mr. Y's crime? On paper, it's "Poor Classroom Management". I've seen his classes; the students don't mind his reasonably unkempt appearance and stringy hair. Hell, he looks better than half of the tenured over-fifty faculty who drag their asses to each class and overrreact to the slightest student insolence. On the contrary, Mr. Y has cultivated a good rapport with students, as the job required. His kids learn English pretty well. While the head of the English department depends on his native Japanese to get by, Mr. Y's nearly bilingual. He's a loveable misfit, a good teacher.

So the real infraction? Being that misfit. There's nothing loveable about it here. Or in the whole of this city, for that matter. The ones doing the firing are fashionable, sculpted, and schmoozy to the paying customers (pronounced: parents). The best thing you can be in this office is uniform. Ordinary.

Mr. Y has about three weeks to clean out his desk.

Questions? Comments? Post here or send mail to: lw_blog@yahoo.com.

Steal This City: 4000-Yen Euphoria

With nightlife and imbibing such an integral part of living in Tokyo (and for that matter the rest of Japan), the market for bars, clubs, izakaya, and anyplace serving up food, drink, and music is predictably thriving; but along with the fun come the same (hi)jacked-up pricing philosophy of brand shops and other establishments with foreign goods: The beer, vodka, and whiskey costs a bundle to import, so we have to raise our prices accordingly. Gomenasai. Well, I swallow a fair amount of alcohol, but I am not swallowing that story anymore. Just this afternoon, in a local supermarket, I saw cans of Heineken and Bud at 200 yen sitting just above Japanese brands at 300. Same volume. Tell me again why most nightclub bars carry Corona for 800 yen and Kirin for 600?

Club cover prices also lean a bit towards highway robbery, but clubs are far more forthcoming in the message they send: Look, kid. This is one of the hottest, if not the hottest, places in the city. If you wanna see pretty girls and witness the stylings of world-famous DJs, this is "the place to be". 5000 yen, please. Here is your ticket for one free drink. Good luck getting anywhere near the bar. I ain't buying that either. I have never, repeat, never been more impressed with a "world famous" tech/house/trance DJ spinning in an armory-sized "club" than with an unknown, sincere, risk-taking local DJ in a tiny corner of the scene who prefers having a good time and having the crowd (be it 10 or 10,000) do the same.

Without aiming to do so, I happened upon a place which fulfilled every yearning for for music by which to chill and let the drinks take their desired effect. On the way home, I discovered as an extra bonus that I'd put away only about 4000 yen, transport included. That's a cheap night in anyone's book. Here's a step-by-step recounting of what made one evening so memorable, or at least so memorably cheap.

1. The Road Soda Factor. (See also: Subway Bubbly, Subbly.) Hey, I'm no cheapskate. In fact, I've been known to overdo it in picking up the tab when out with local friends. But a 40-minute haul into Shibuya on a Saturday can be a bit lonesome unless there's a bit of drama unfolding in the train car you plop down in: lovers' spat, puking OL/salary man, loud ganguro girls, your garden variety nutbag. Plus, I like to make the scene with a bit of a buzz already going. The Commuter's Cocktail is almost a standard in New York; the Long Island Rail Road even had a bartender in each train until just a few years ago.

The combini at my station carries a lethal lemon-flavored canned chu-hai (150 yen, 7% alcohol) in tallboy cans. Depending on your body weight and DNA, just one of these could catch you off guard if you're not careful. Don't let the pretty colors on the can fool you, this is no ladies' drink. This one means business. If you do too, you'll pick up a couple for the ride in, assuming you're at a truly remote point A and a trek away from point B.

2. The Joint. (Click here.) A ten-minute walk from Shibuya Station's Hachiko crossing. Two joints, actually: one on the third floor, the other on the fourth. Both are mini-clubs, situated on a small slope around the corner from Shibuya's Tokyu Hands, each with simply a bar, DJ booth, dance floor, and modest lighting. Wall decorations? A few album covers, kitschy movie posters. Get comfy on dated vinyl furniture. The bars themselves don't offer any innovations in modern carpentry, but I'm not there to sniff the cedar. Sound systems? Superb. I walked into the fouth-floor joint to the tune of Prince's Erotic City being cut up by the house DJ; I'd later compliment him on his skills in broken/drunken Japanese. He'd smile appreciatively. We'd clink glasses. I'd stumble away.

Generally, the third floor's selections vary with each event; anything from house to techno to hip-hop to future jazz can be heard from the stairs as you make your way up. You can count on tech/house/etc. for the fourth floor's regular format.

3. Ikuradesuka? The fourth floor club offers two free drinks for a 2000-yen cover; the third, 2000 yen, but just one free drink, and a half-shot (30ml) at that. This is the only hiccup about the third floor, and my guess is they can justify being a bit stingy due to the "name" DJs they can boast who have been known to drop in for a spin. (On my first outing here about two years ago, Pizzicato 5's Yasuharu Konishi had just finished a brief residency.)

Remember those powerful chu-hais I mentioned? Well, I couldn't polish off the second tallboy before making the scene, so I'd tucked it in my bag for the way home. After the two free drinks I got at the club, it had struck, say, 2:30; I started for the bar and mulled over a nice light vodka-tonic/twist, when I suddenly remembered what was sitting all lukewarm and alone in my bag. I still had enough ice in my glass, WTF? I popped it in, then sipped it slow, and was good to go for at least another half an hour.

So there you go. 4000 yen euphoria, home by 6am, ready for bed. If you've got a minute, post a message detailing a unique outing in your universe.

QUESTIONS? COMMENTS? MAIL ME AT lw_blog@yahoo.com.

You Bring Light In

With so few aquaintances in Tokyo and more time spent on trains than sleeping, I've assigned personas to some of the inanimate objects I encounter every day. A few of the Tokyo Metro trains lines have taken on lives of their own; each has it's own unique personality. The Oedo Line is a chameleon, looping through all areas of the city, transporting any and all members of Tokyo's ifinite subcultures, leaving it a jittery yet exhausted mirky magenta at the end of the day. The Namboku Line is detatched, cool, and aloof, despite being situated right in the middle of all the action. It's been assigned a non-intrusive schoolroom green for color identification on Metro signs and maps. Glass partitions, opening only to let commuters on or off, sctretch across the platform, granting free range to toddlers and muting the screeches and occasional sparks as wheels grind on tracks.

The northernmost Namboku stops are way out of the city: Akabane, Oji, and Urawa in Saitama. The very last suburban station abandons you amidst farms, three-story apartment buildings, and ma and pa shops. An hour and fifteen minute trip south on the same line are stations including Roppongi 1-Chome and Azabu-Juban. The latter reminds me of parts of Manhattan: after-work crowds undo ties and talk shit over pinot noir and music chosen for its indistinctiveness. There are quite a few foreigners floating around, but not the kind who teach English in cubicles, wear fanny-packs while squinting at city maps, or own a copy of Let's Go Japan. The kind who park wherever they want, have diplomat plates, emerge from behind tinted windows, and put most expenses on the company account.

As the Nanboku cuts north through the city, it hooks up with the Oedo, Ginza (mustard yellow), Marunochi (Vodafone red) , Toei-Shinjuku (nearly chartreuse), Tozai (hospital scrubs blue), and Mita (navy) lines. I get the Oedo via the Namboku when I need to head towards east Tokyo and meet with the agency that hired me to work at the high school. (Last Wednesday I was called in to discuss the contract for the next school year, which begins in just over three months.)

So from where I work, getting to east Tokyo is anything but a problem. The infinitely resourceful www.hyperdia.com lists the travel time from my school to the office headquarters at just under twenty minutes, including hoof time. I'd be getting the Oedo Line at Iidabashi, staying on for just 3 or 4 stations.

Little things like subway trips offer aesthetic pleasure if you're in the right head; they become events and not simply the dead minutes between doing other "important" things. They have a tiny universe all their own and can be mini-journeys in and of themselves. Tokyo's just the city for it too. Wire your head with some mp3s that roust your senses, and the underground Metro-scape of of tunnels, lights, space, and air begin to rival Tokyo MOMA installations or dancefloor light design.. Getting the Oedo at Iidabashi last Wednesday proved to be one the more memorable of these little jaunts in recent memory.

I drew uneasy and irritated glares from black-suited commuters as I snapped pic after pic with my phone. Within the maze leading to the Oedo Line, light tubes are impossibly strung across the ceilings above escalators. One enormous tunnel, straight out of Gattica or The Fifth Element curves endlessly to the left. Putting the photos through a negative filter transformed the dark and uniformed salary men and OLs into ghosts or angels.

That's enough, I'll just let the photos say it.