A Random Walk

JNN News at 7

INTERNAL MEMO

To all editorial staff:

I just got off an urgent conference call with the Prime Minister. Yes, the man himself. Also in attendance were the heads of the three largest Keidanren members.

It’s not good news. They were apoplectic at tonight’s broadcast.

“You’re leaving viewers way too concerned about Japan” was the message. They fumed at our focus on recent polls of the population (what voters think isn’t really news was the phrase I believe), as well as our mention of “embezzlement, underworld ties, cults, and campaign finance violations in the LDP.”

“Do you really think all that is fair game,” asked the PM.

They also feel it was unnecessary to report that the Supreme Court has green-lighted LGBT discrimination in almost any circumstances. And regarding our final piece, the head of NEC yelled, “Just because Japan placed bottom 3 among all developed nations in gender equality, you find that to be fking news?”

Team, we need to take steps to fix all of this, pronto.

Here’s our lineup for tonight.

• Preparations Underway for the Sapporo Snow Festival—Kato got some great footage of an ice dragon; definitely get that in there.

• 18-minute In-Depth Interview with Kabuki Legend Genryoku Nakamura, Celebrating 102 Years on the Stage.

• Hitachi Unveils Environmentally Friendly Battery Options for Vacuum Cleaners.

I’ve taken the liberty of pre-screening the above choices with the PM’s office and they love it. Let’s get it done.

Yamada

News Division 4, Hombucho

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November 11, 2023

Dear Diary,

What is it with Europhiles, that tiny but very real sliver of modern Japanese society? As a resident westerner, I seem to get more than my fair share of exposure.

An invitation to a dinner or a party, which is never billed Europhile up front, is the usual trap. No one says oh won’t you come to a party I’m arranging that will be filled with only seriously Europhile Japanese like me—and as a (ahem, white person), you’d be perfect window dressing for the occasion.

No, it’s simply an event. Dim people like me say sure, ask no follow ups, and then walk in to find out that we’ve been snared. Once again.

Tetsuya, a new friend-of-a-friend on Facebook, invited me to a French wild game dinner in Hatchoubori last night that he was arranging. Sounded fab. He mentioned that the dress code was “Tweed.” Cute!

I own precisely one tweed jacket—but paired with some decent jeans and a sweater—I was sure I could satisfy the code and blend with the occasion.

Plus a three-course game meal, plied with generous quantities of inky Bordeaux... Who’s to ask follow ups?

I have to say the restaurant was a real find. It’s on a back, back, back street of Hatchou and the chef-owner has gone to great lengths to bring an authentic and homey, bistro feel to the place. Music was a gentle stream of Edith Piaf—I approved.

I know you’re going to ask, so the game portion of yesterday’s menu was a guinea fowl as well as venison in a magically thick and deep mushroom gravy.

All that was fine. But after I got settled at my assigned table, I realized that I had walked into not simply a Tweedy game dinner but a restaurant full of deeply Anglophile—a common subset of Europhile—Japanese people.

One 30-ish and portly* Japanese guest actually came in a full Sherlock Holmes tweed cape and hat and he smoked a pipe. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had whipped out a large magnifying glass to inspect his meal.

Many of the men in the room had waxed moustaches. The ladies were all in salon curls or up-dos and full-length dresses.

I introduced myself around my table and found that my assigned dinner mates were largely young doctors and hospital administrators. I tried to speak to them about the Japanese medical system rather than about Balmoral Castle which I’m positive they were eager to address.

They were dressed to the nines in custom-tailored tweed stylings that must have cost several months’ rent each. None could speak a word of English (an Anglo language) but they chatted away in animated Japanese about the Medoc being served with the fowl. They seemed to appreciate that the American at their table could join in.

Te-chan’s tailor came to the dinner. About a 60-year-old immaculately groomed Japanese man, he sat three tables away from ours. He had a sparse but long Japanese beard, perfectly coiffed. I soon found out that most of the diners yesterday are also his customers. He must be doing very well.

* I’m being nice.

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Imagine you are a golf course developer in Japan. You enjoy the backing of plenty of loaded investors and money is never an issue.

A location for your newest course must be decided. There is a picturesque, almost untouched peninsula only 90 minutes by car from the heart of Tokyo. It juts out into the deep navy blue and wild Pacific. The island of Oshima as well as (the always bankable) Mt. Fuji are on the unobstructed horizon.

Only one hitch. At least 30% of the year this peninsula is battered, nay flattened, with howling winds from all compass points. Unrelenting gales that suck the oxygen out of your mouth. Gusts that would not only knock back and down perfectly struck drives, they would knock back and down the golfers themselves.

Do you build?

Oh, it’s 1982. Of course you do!

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Q. How do you know when you’ve lived in Japan too long?

A. You catch yourself bowing when apologizing over the phone.

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I was walking my dog downhill on Yamate Dori on a weekday about 6AM. The sidewalk was empty and only a few cars were on the street. My hound and I love those peaceful early hours in Tokyo.

A middle-aged Japanese man riding a bicycle came flying down the hill from behind. Just as he overtook us, he hucked a huge gob of spit at my head, but it missed. By the time I figured out what had happened, he was a block and a half ahead of me down the hill and barreling further away. I was stunned. I was smoking when he spit at me—that’s the only reason I can think of why I was targeted so specifically. I’m positive it wasn’t a “us vs. gaijin” thing—I felt he would have spit at a Japanese smoker too.

I did manage to see some humor in the scene—the action of spitting at someone, without saying a word, and safely zooming far out of reach is so Japanese in its passive aggressiveness. Viva Yamato.

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Note from Editor: The following is real dialogue. Reprinted without permission.

JK: The nice neighbor lady who grows those beautiful rows of vegetables, you know the one. She said to me, “You haven’t come around in a while.” Seems she noticed we haven’t been here.

Toru: And what did you say?

JK: I said yeah, I had a bit of a work slog in Tokyo. It’s been about three weeks that we couldn’t come.

Toru: I see. She’s not nice by the way.

JK: What? Why?

Toru: The other neighbors come around and give us vegetables. They say, I grew way too many, won’t you have some daikon? I don’t see her ever coming by with extra vegetables.

JK: Maybe she grows her vegetables for a business or something.

Toru: I seriously doubt that.

JK:  Like artisanal or something. A special organic farm and she sells her cabbages on the internet maybe.

Toru: Please. The difference is she’s not from around here. She and her son moved here from somewhere else. Locals give away their extra vegetables.