- Halfway to the shrine garden. Taking a few minutes to rest and let some of the larger o-mikoshi move past us.
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Hikawa Shrine-1
And so it begins ... we're ready to walk the 300 meters between this gate and the inner garden at Hikawa Jinja in Omiya. Decked out today in the Uetake 1-chome hanten rather than our Mutsumi-kai version since we're representing the neighborhood.
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Atwater was Right
Following is a quote from Lee Atwater that appeared in LIFE magazine in February 1991 and, nearly 20 years later, is no less pertinent to any discussion of the reality that is America:
“My illness helped me to see that what was missing in society is what was missing in me: a little heart, a lot of brotherhood. The ’80s were about acquiring — acquiring wealth, power, prestige. I know. I acquired more wealth, power, and prestige than most. But you can acquire all you want and still feel empty. What power wouldn’t I trade for a little more time with my family? What price wouldn’t I pay for an evening with friends? It took a deadly illness to put me eye to eye with that truth, but it is a truth that the country, caught up in its ruthless ambitions and moral decay, can learn on my dime. I don’t know who will lead us through the ’90s, but they must be made to speak to this spiritual vacuum at the heart of American society, this tumor of the soul.”
(Mr. Atwater succumbed to brain cancer in March 1991)
Useful links (thanks to @karoli for the first, Ivon K. for the second through fourth)
Osborne Ink: “Sunday Sermon – They are the fear they want us to feel“
SourceWatch: Lee Atwater
New Speak Dictionary: The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism
And, finally, a video (Camper Van Beethoven doing Oh Death) the comments for which unintentionally sum up the state of American politics rather succinctly: Oh Death
Hard Times/Studs Terkel-2
Roosevelt was building up new ideas in a milieu of old ideas. His early campaign speeches were pure Old Deal. He called for a balanced budget. When he got into office, the whole banking system collapsed. It called fir a New Deal.
… As for those first New Deal days, much of the excitement came from improvisation. Nothing was fully set in the minds of the people there. They were open to fresh ideas. We wouldn’t have been where we are now, were it not for the Washington improvisations ….
This outflowing of people felt they were somehow on rhe way – though they were not shre how. A syrprising number, we discovered, were sons of ministers, rabbis, missionaries. Yes, there was an evangelical quality, though it was non religious. People were personally concerned about a better world, came to Washington, were drawn to it. Even though where we were going was still to be worked out. There was an elan, an optimism … An evangelism … It was an adventure.
Gardiner C. Means, page 247-250
Hard Times/Studs Terkel
An excerpt:
I never heard anyone who expressed feeling that the United States Government, as it existed, was done for. It was quite the opposite. The desire to restore the country to the affluence it had. This was uppermost in people’s minds. Even the socialists who talked about taking the corporate system out were just talking, that’s all.
If we had a severe depression today – I’m basically an optimist – I don’t think this country would survive. Many people today are rootless. When you have this rootlessness we’re talking about the Germany of the Twenties. You’d see overt dictatorship take over. You would see your camps…
Edward Santander, page 210
The Family Plot
The monk’s pleasant baritone, reciting a sutra, had been teasing my mind down a placid stream when the plump little obasan waddled through our private ceremony and hailed her friends at a nearby plot. I’d managed to put the blowtorch out of my mind by then, stopped worrying about the river of sweat coursing down my back, and reconciled myself to gently rocking back and forth on my heels as a way to stay in the moment and forget about the hot noontime sun. I had no idea how much longer the ceremony would take but figured that time would pass unnoticed so long as I remained focused on the clump of greenery on the horizon and tuned in to the sutra.
We were at the cemetery consecrating the family’s new burial plot. Father-in-Law had been trying to get one for several years now and to everyone’s relief his name had finally been pulled from the basket. He’d just made a special trip to Fukuoka to bring back the ashes of his mother, biological father and step-father and Manami and I were there with Minako’s urn. Grandfather Kaji went to war with the Japanese Imperial Navy and never returned; his wife remarried but refused to be placed in the same crypt as her second husband’s sisters. Minako was born in November 1998 with Edward’s Syndrome and lived for 34 days; for the past decade we’d kept her ashes in the household shrine.
We’d debated the issue “What to do with Minako’s ashes” many times in the past but never had to reach a decision because getting a family plot convenient to the house isn’t easy in this part of metro Tokyo. Father-in-Law got on a waiting list a few years ago and began putting away the million or so yen he’d need to pay for a piece of land the size of a bathmat. Add the gravestone, transportation and other charges and he probably paid upwards of $15,000. Manami and I went to the nearest discount clothing shop and picked up blacks suits used for formal occasions in Japan. Hard to believe that after 16 years and numerous funerals this is my first black suit; this should give you some idea of how much emotional energy I was investing in the ceremony.
Japanese are often described as sticklers for convention, and it’s true, they are, but like all humans some are capable of treating formal occasions with reverence while others treat them as just another formality. I look back on this experience and marvel at the perverse beauty of its complete and utter lack of reverence. I’d been prepared for the stiffness of ceremony but what I got was a cross between the Beverly Hillbillies and Caddyshack. To my left, a score of boisterous bumpkins. Were they blissfully unaware of our presence or just numbskulls who don’t know any better? To my right, the in-laws, my spouse and children and, hovering on the edge of my field of vision, Carl Spackler incarnate.
The family plot
I dislike intensely people who gab during movies, who fart on trains, and who talk within earshot during a ceremony. Maybe it’s my Polish blood, maybe I just lack patience and perspective; whatever it is, I tend to react inappropriately. So when I strode over to the bumpkins I did so with some trepidation, aware that I was of two distinct and irreconcilable minds: the gentleman seeking to defend his father-in-law’s dignity by inquiring of these fine people if it was in any way possible for them to please be slightly more, uh, thoughtful given the, uh, circumstances; and the berserker ready and willing to throw it all away for the momentary pleasure of throttling the life out of the first gormless little bastard I could get my hands on. I thought of my long-suffering spouse and compromised: “Would you mind terribly shutting the fuck up … please?” Later, when we were at the restaurant rehashing the day’s events, Father-in-Law took a sip of beer and asked casually, “So who were those friends of yours?”
I sidled back into friendly territory. The yokels responded to my request by upping the volume, and for a second there I could see Dubya on the deck of that aircraft carrier, big old “Mission Accomplished!” banner plastered on the superstructure behind him. Fortunately, another of Nature’s lovely little creatures chose to intervene at that moment and divert my attention.
The monk was a strikingly soft-spoken, mildly obsequious man in his 50s, and the steady breeze that had kicked up was playing havoc with his ceremony. At a certain point he is supposed to stand a little paper icon on top of the gravestone; after it toppled over for the third time, he turned to face us and explained that he would hold it in his hand despite the obvious (to him) violation of protocol. With our consent he continued, drifting into the next sutra like a canoeist pushing away from shore into a firm, steady current.
Enter the beetle. Nature’s quintessential Little Black Bug™ chose that moment to alight on the back of the monk’s yellow gown. After getting its bearings, the bug began crawling up the valley between our man’s shoulder blades, doing so, I estimated, at a pace that would take it up and over the collar and onto the bare neck before the sutra had been completed. The bumpkins and the breeze were enough indignity for one day, and now the monk was in for another unpleasant surprise. My first reaction was “Smack it!” I soon came to my senses: “Can’t do that – my man’s a Buddhist!” I looked at my family. Everyone’s eyes were averted; hadn’t they noticed? So I closed my eyes, let go and let the gods: “Ah, what the hell. I’ll give it another minute and see what happens.”
Having surrendered to that which I cannot control, I opened my eyes to find that our little intruder had bugged off. In the restaurant afterward I turned to Mother-in-Law and asked, “Did you notice that bug?” A slight, reserved woman, she broke into a broad smile and said: “Are you kidding! I didn’t know what to do! It was driving me nuts!”
The final act in the ceremony is the offering of incense. At home we use one thin piece about the same length but half the thickness of a swizzle stick, break it into thirds, light and then place them in a bowl. For the consecration ritual, however, we each used a bundle of 40-50 sticks that looked like miniature fasces without the axe. “Carl” the groundskeeper took up a position slightly to the left of the gravestone, six incense fasces in his left hand, blow torch in the right.
“Right. Time to light the incense. Lemme just put these over here … that’s it … okay, gonna light the blowtorch now …Watch yourself!” FWOOSH! Father-in-Law looks at him, asks if he always uses a blowtorch. “Oh, hell yeah. Not gonna get these lit with a cigarette lighter, you know. Take hours to do that! With this it’s just touch and go.” Father-in-Law asks if anyone has ever complained about his method. “You see those people over there?” He nods in the direction of the bumpkins. “Got into an argument with them earlier. Bunch a …”
Sealing the crypt
The incense offered, all that remained was to seal the crypt. “Carl” placed a stone slab over the opening and began to seal them together with grout. “Gotta make sure nobody comes by and grabs the ashes, you know.” Father-in-Law crouches down and asks if the seal is really secure. “Well of course not! All you need is a little leverage to pop off the cover! But it’s better than nothing!”
Exeunt
Having been paid, the monk by now had wandered off. The bumpkins had dispersed unnoticed. We took our leave as “Carl” was packing away the parasol and chatting to himself. The sun hung in the sky and the cemetery, its lush green rows empty save for the odd insect gliding around the headstones, was still.
Japanese Yen for Bowing
Memo
To: Office of the Prime Minister
From: Ministry of Boundless Enthusiasm
Re: Japanese yen for bowing
Hoping that the recent week-long spell of rainy weather hasn’t dampened your enthusiasm for reform, the MBE would like to report the development of a new program that, amazingly enough, promises to dispel several threatening thunderheads at one stroke. Indeed, we’re confident that this veritable silver lining may very well turn into a gold mine.
As you are no doubt aware, a number of critically important issues confront the nation — recessionary economic conditions, rapidly aging society, wheezing health care system, expanding ranks of unemployed workers, and shrinking consumption. We at the MBE believe, in all seriousness, that a concerted effort to stamp out bowing among the aged in the answer to all of these problems.
Let’s begin by taking a hard look at the facts. Informal research reveals that the typical pensioner bows 47 times when greeting an acquaintance on the street; this figure balloons to 72 times when the same pensioner is communicating with an authority figure (doctor, bureaucrat, etc.). Recognizing that the elderly tend to have a greater number of acquaintances, make more visits to hospitals/clinics/municipal facilities, and are generally more polite than younger people, and understanding that the population is graying at an inexorable rate, it is safe to conclude that we have a major crisis on our hands. The impact on the health care system of this possible and altogether probable epidemic of slipped disks and related ailments will be staggering.
We’re obviously in no position to force superannuated members of society to isolate at home. That proposition, while attractive, is politically untenable and — given the vast quantities of otherwise useful tax revenue invested to date in universal access infrastructure — wasteful. No, we at the MBE propose the introduction of Designated Bowers.
Yes, Designated Bowers. Young people gleaned from the ranks of surplus labor, trained at brand-name boutiques and convenience stores, and then auctioned off to the highest bidders every quarter.
The pensioners will benefit 1) by preserving their fragile hips and backbones and 2) from the prestige gained from having a Louis Vuitton Garcon at their beck and call (some restrictions apply).
Now, do you really think the neighbor’s wife will be happy with Fami-Mart Bart? That’s right: “Rip up the tatami, Taro, we’re going to Tiffany’s!” Unlock household savings, unlock the nation’s future.
As for the Designated Bowers, what better way to prepare for adulthood and its responsibilities than by learning at an early age the value of proper behavior, personal hygiene and the spirit of volunteerism.
A simple amendment to the Constitution requiring two years of “Gratitude Service” would effectively pave the way for this handy program.
Eagerly awaiting your reply in the affirmative!
That Shougayaki Joint in Mita …
Once upon a time there was a grizzled old crust of a guy, all sinew and sweat, who could tame fire. This was his only trick, but what a trick it was. People would gather in his little shack every afternoon and watch him work his magic. Armed only with a frying pan and ladle, he bobbed and weaved amid a curtain of flames to serve up plate after steaming plate of shougayaki (ginger pork). He had the rhythm, economy of movement and grace of a dancer. And it tasted great.
You could find him outside the shop at the end of the day slumped on a stool enjoying a smoke, and he’d dabble in some gruff small talk before stubbing out the dog end and shuffling back into the ring for another round.
Ginger pork is a simple dish: you throw some sliced pork into a frying pan with raw ginger and a ladle of sauce, flash fry and then serve alongside a mountain of shredded cabbage. Simple, sure, but few people can do it well enough to make a living. The old guy succeeded because people enjoy watching a master at work as much as they love a good story; he may have been uttering the same lines day after day, but then so was Olivier.
Well, one day our master died, and his middle-aged son, the long-suffering apprentice-cum-dishwasher, was thrust into the spotlight, and it hasn’t been the same since. Henry David Thoreau once said that “most men live lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” Everyone agrees that the son can put together a good ginger pork, but they also agree that it ain’t his particular song. It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable with the flame and lacks the economy of movement that made his father’s performance so compelling. He’s a competent understudy at best.
Oddly enough, he makes a fantastic menchi katsu.
電車の紳士
I’ve been trying to come up with the right words in Japanese to describe a young gentleman I observed on the train the other day. I thought かっこいい (kakkoii) was the best way to describe him until I did a little research at Space ALC and realized that its connotation was more about being “cool” or “stylish” and less about having a warm heart and acting with selfless valor. Another option was すてきな男 (suteki-na otoko). I don’t think 紳士 (shinshi), or gentleman, is correct, though it’s the best choice in English.
Let me describe the situation, and you can be the judge — and my teacher.
I hopped the Keihin Tohoku Line back to Omiya late last Thursday. It was about 11:30, the GW holiday had begun for many workers, so plenty of people who had been out drinking were now making their way home. You had the disgruntled middle-aged OL who had finally quit her job and was now torturing her slightly-less-soused co-worker with a drunken high-pitched monologue. It wasn’t until we reached Oji Station that either of them noticed that the train wasn’t heading for Shinagawa. I savored the schadenfreude. They were replaced by one of the living dead who, gripping the hand strap for all it was worth, swung like a pendulum and managed to kneecap everyone within arm’s reach of his briefcase.
Akabane Station and a massive transfusion of bodies. Among the rumpled suits were a handsome young fella and his slightly disoriented lady friend. You don’t really notice the people coming and going unless they do something unusual, such as stand arms akimbo and linger in the aisle like this young lady. So I looked up from by book and watched as the fella sotto voce urged her into the last available seat. Oh, okay … she’s had too much to drink and he’s handling the situation … everything back to normal … what page was that …
Kawaguchi, Warabi, Minami Urawa and now the train is down to about 30% capacity. Most of the seats are empty and the aisles are wide open, giving everyone an unobstructed view. It might be counter intuitive, but I’d argue that crowded trains offer a greater level of anonymity, your embarrassment contained by the tightly packed bodies. So it was poor timing on the young lady’s part to begin getting sick as the train pulled out of Minami Urawa Station.
Again, I hadn’t really noticed until the young fella, now seated, began rummaging through his backpack for … something, anything. And here’s where I was impressed. He didn’t fuss or complain, but picked out a shirt and handed it to his lady, who covered her mouth. Then he pulled out another shirt and began cleaning up her dress. And then he found a bag she could use, held it for her and began to speak soft, comforting words.
But now it’s not necessarily back to normal. The rest of us are very much aware what is happening but feigning disinterest. We’re not cold-hearted bastards, are we? We’re just following the script, unwilling to risk making the situation more embarrassing for the young man and his lady. I’m unsure what to do next. I have a new pack of wet tissues in my briefcase, but don’t want to invade the young man’s space, so I rationalize that the scene unfolding before my eyes is a one-man play, our hero braving the spotlight to deliver his interpretation of the archetypal “Gentleman Helping Lady in Distress,” perhaps the seminal act in a romance of timeless proportions. “And your father, he was such a gentleman …”
Whatever. But I can’t shake the compulsion to act. So I compromise: I’ll do something after everyone else is gone. By now the train has passed through Urawa, Kita Urawa and Yono and is pulling into Saitama Shintoshin. Where’d I put those tissues? Cue surreptitious fumbling. I find them as we’re pulling into Omiya, the terminal station. I figure it will take him several minutes to pack up his clothes and get his girlfriend on her feet, so I linger as the other commuters exit the train, then approach him and offer the tissues. “I’m sorry, but could you use these?” “Yes. Thank you very much.” “No, no. Don’t mention it.”
