Nomunication
29 August 2003, 04:26
I learned a new word the other day - “Nomunication”, the art of communicating while being juiced to the eyeballs.
The word (apparently common in Japan although I’d never heard it before now) is made up of “Nomu”, the Japanese verb “to drink” (in this case, the assumption is that it will be a piss-load of alcohol) and “Communication”. Let it be said that Japan’s adult population consists of a fairly large number of lushes and most of the time, its fuckin’ superb. Alcohol and company is, in my opinion, one of the finest recipes for human bondage…erm, bonding.
But there is, of course, a dark side to this pre-occupation with nomunication. A friend of ours, a Manager of a Japanese company, went to a Bonenkai (end of year party) last year with his colleagues. He got rather, ahem, soused, stumbled to the train station, fell over on the platform, and broke his right cheek bone.
For three months he couldn’t wink or smile with that side of his face. Unfortunately, when he was recounting his story, some miscommunication occurred with the translation and we thought he’d said that until the accident he couldn’t wink or smile and now he could, to which we were on the verge of searching the heavens and proclaiming “It’s a miracle!!!” Two weeks after the accident, he had to make a speech to his company to welcome in the New Year and apologised profusely for his licentious behaviour.
In the Japanese business culture, there is a real emphasis on getting drunk with colleagues after work. Interestingly this does not extend to the Friday lunchtime write-off enjoyed by their Australian counterparts. Getting pork-chopped over lunch is frowned upon whereas the post-work izakaya liquor-spree is positively encouraged.
One of my students, a salary man in his early 40’s and a Senior Manager of his company, carouses with his colleagues or clients 5 out of 7 nights a week. After teaching him the critical phrase, “I have a hangover”, I asked him why he felt compelled to get his liver wet so often. He regarded me with haunted, hungover eyes and replied, “I have to. It is very important.” Now when a Japanese person says “It’s very important” it usually means “Its reasonably important” but in this case, I didn’t doubt him…
For the most part, nomunication has a positive effect on company and personal relations, although I did wonder what my student’s wife thought about him being crocked for 60% of his waking life.
While the answer remains a mystery, I, for one, am looking forward to nomunicating with my fellow passengers tomorrow on the train down to Shimoda!!! Long live the liquid eki-ben!
Permanent Link | In a Toe-Jam
27 August 2003, 00:34
I have very long toes. And very narrow feet. When I was a kid, I couldn’t wear the regulation JC sandals to school because they were too wide. My mother use to (actually, still does) tease me about my lanky toes, saying they were freaky looking and that I should try swinging off trees. As a 10 year old, I thought I was a toe-nail away from being sold to a circus.
My mother, on the other hand, has short and (she calls them “neat”, but they’re actually…) stubby toes. I am an anomaly in my own family.
I am not an anomaly in the big happy tribe that is Japan, however. Recently I have noticed thousands of similarly freaky finger-like toes popping out of thongs and open-toed sandals in search of the sun. I thought at first I was in a delicious dreamland where everyone could play the piano with their toes, but no, it seems that a disproportianate number of Japanese women really do have gangly toes which are out of proportion to the rest of their feet.
And I thought it was just me…
Permanent Link | Comments [1]Bentos on the Beach
25 August 2003, 19:01
There’s a lot to be said for both the Aussie and the Japanese beach experiences.
In Australia, you grab your towel, a picnic basket full of goodies, your togs and maybe a beach umbrella, unless you want to brave finding a suitable tree. If you live on the coast, you can also usually find a stretch of beach that is reasonably quiet, if not deserted.
In Japan (well, Tokyo at least), you grab your towel and your togs, head to the nearest beach (which in our case is 90 minutes away) with thousands of others and let the Japanese hospitality-conveyor-belt do the rest.
We (Martine, Al, Matt and I) arrived on Miura-Kaigan beach at the tip of the Miura Peninsula, with swimwear, towels and some snacks. We shouldn’t have bothered with the snacks, as there were a slew of bento places and izakayas, providing ramen, curry and, most importantly, beer (there was also a beach-side KFC and McDonalds but we don’t talk about that).
We rented a beach umbrella and beach chair, set up camp on the sand and soaked up the sun and atmosphere, for where there are thousands of people, there are thousands of characters. Including thousands of motherf@#$ing little “characters” masquerading as jellyfish. Its been a long time since I’ve been to a beach in Australia, but I surely do not remember these blobs of gelatinous evil ever stinging me. Yesterday, however, they were out in force. Matt and I compared stings at the end of the day, I won for biggest sting, Matt won for most stings. Little fuckers.
The thing that most struck me was the percentage of people in the 18-35 year old age group with tattoos. I’d be guessing around 5%? And we’re talking huge, elaborate designs on both men and women. Its clear that the younger generation is kicking the arse out of the link between tattoos and yakuza. Such a stigma is so passe.
In keeping with the Japanese commandment of “Thou shalt not have quiet where people doth relax”, the beach was a cacophony of sound - ice cream sellers were circling the beach with their little Tibetan cow-bells, music blared over a loud speaker system and three girls sitting behind us, with cigarettes and beers dangling from their mouths, treated us to some karaoke.
But after a fairly miserable and cold Summer, yesterday’s 33 degree chill-out on the beach was blissful, almost sickeningly so. Although, when the crowds thinned out around 4.30 and there was time to contemplate the late afternoon sky and semi-peaceful surrounds, a loud announcement pronounced the beach was closing at 5 pm.
Huh? The day is just beginning!
Permanent Link | Comments [1]The Bitch and the Beatific
24 August 2003, 00:22
Matt got a little house-call from the Jehovah’s Witnesses this morning. He really struggles with saying “No” to things, which is great for me, particularly when I want a back-rub. I have tried to kick his arse and get him to be a bit more selfish with his time and loyalties, but honestly, its like asking little Johnny Howard to take his tongue out of Dubya’s arse. Damn Matt, he’s just so. bloody. good! I honestly have no idea how two people so different got together or why we work so well as a couple.
I have no problem saying no to Jehovah’s Witnesses. If one tries to shove some scripture down my throat on the street, I blow them off. If they conjugate on my door-step, I pretend I’m not home or grunt “Sorry, not interested” before they can open their mouths (the bibles and the sweet nonchalant looking children are usually dead giveaways).
My parents have always done the same, my mother is particularly dismissive (fuck, I love that woman) and my brother has a tendency to debate the New Testament with them, sending them howling back to their caverns in a peevish funk. I have been brought up in a family that refuses to listen to what it doesn’t want to hear.
I don’t give a shit what religion people follow, as long as they don’t try to force feed it into my already delinquent brain. I am past saving. If I needed a new religion I would have already bought it.
Scent and the City
23 August 2003, 04:25
I have always been affected by smells. They are my main memory-activator, which unfortunately means certain fragrances remind me of ex-boyfriends who should have remained curled up and locked in a dumpster. Tokyo is a place where every sense gets a firing on a daily basis, particularly that of smell. Here are some of the scents I will most miss when I leave (and a few I won’t);
Olfactory paradise:
1. Incense wafting in from neighbourhood shrines and temples;
2. Fresh, un-steeped Matcha (tea-ceremony tea) in the Seibu Basement;
3. Yakitori grilling from sidewalk restaurants and yatai;
4. The acrid smoke smell of extinguished firecrackers; and
5. Our tatami room. Like fresh bales of hay during a thunderstorm.
Olfactory purgatory:
1. Sewage smell hovering over street grills. I swear to God it’s the worse I’ve smelt, and I’ve smelt some shit in my time;
2. Human urine in some train stations (somehow “public draining of lizard” got missed in the Japanese list of human transgressions);
3. Fish stalls. Sure, it’s fresh fish (most of the time) but in spite of being raised by a fanatical fisherman, I still can’t stomach the smell of uncooked fish;
4. Oyaji Rot; and
5. Cigarettes, both “fossilised” (many buildings have that deliciously stale 50-years-of-cigarettes-stubbed-out-in-the-carpet aroma) and “fresh” (particularly bad is the smoking section on Shinjuku’s Saikyo line platform. The cigarette smoke there could smother a rodent at 20 feet).
