Howdy y'all. Glad you all like the posts. Even happier that you all like my writing. I've always loved to write.
Anyway, to recap for all you tuning in midseason, I'm in Kyoto now, studying at Ritsumeikan University.
I'd like to follow up on Annie's comment:
Though, don't discount the cultural aspect to learning any language. I think there are things that you won't understand about Japanese without experiencing Japan first hand.
The best example I can come up with on a Sunday night is "mushi atsui"... I knew the English translation, but until I experienced Tokyo in August, I had no idea what it really meant.
And then there's the immersion factor. Living in rural Japan I don't hear English spoken most days and that's had a huge impact on the Japanese learning curve. (and the English forgetting curve... I was watching an American MTV program last night, and I could barely understand half of what the guy was saying.)
Absolutely. If you're going to be serious about Japanese (that is, becoming fluent enough in it to become a translator/interpreter), there is little other recourse than to spend a few years in Japan. Language isn't just words, it's the actions and ways of thinking of the native speakers as well. I just see many people give up because they don't think they can ever get to Japan, and I wanted to say that if you're studying Japanese for fun, there are many helpful resources available to you right now.
Also, remember I'm in a major modern city, so whenever I complain about being around a lot of English, that is why. If you were to be in one of the more rural parts of Japan, you would be shocked by the absence of English. Still, that still means nothing if you're not going out and practicing your Japanese. I actually like the big cities bigger, because you can easily go out and find people to speak Japanese with and then when you get overwhelmed, you can go see an English language movie or find English language books or find many people who speak English.
And now...
GYM
Being a man, I think of few things. Perhaps you can guess most of them. From what we've seen of me so far in these posts, they mostly consist of skirt, steak, violence, and the occasional puppy dog or two (as long as they grow up to be killer beasts). Thus, it is probably no far stretch to also accept that I deeply love weightlifting. I've been weightlifting religiously since I was about 13 and a half, and there are few things I enjoy more.
But let me explain myself! There's more to this man than dashing good looks, suave personality, and a beautiful mind. Yes! Unbelievable as it is, there is more:
Let me tell you a tale of how my dad loves weightlifting, of how he had to work summers as a teenager to save up the money to buy his own rickety weights, of how he had to work out in the cold cold garage back home in dreary Chicago all by himself, teaching himself the proper form and technique, idolizing Charles Atlas and the Blonde Bomber, watching the Conan series on tv Saturday nights and doing push ups between commericials. Let me tell you a tale of triumph in which he eventually went on to set weightlifting records at his high school, 8 of which still stand; of him continuing to lift as he grew and matured, eventually finding a very spirtual side of weightlifting, lifting more for balance and harmony with his body than for power and strength, finding time and again that weightlifting clears his mind, destroys his worries, helps him connect with himself; waiting until the one day he had a son to pass the art down to, waiting for the day when that son was old enough to begin to learn, to learn that spirituality that comes with attuning so deeply with one's own body, delving into one's muscles and fiber, reshaping them, reconstructing them, dashing away the imperfections, and creating perfection. It was never about bigger and stronger, it was always about harmony, balance.
Let me tell you a tale of intimacy, where the father, with his gentle hand, guides the son, guides the son when he can lift no more than the plastic bars, the two together in their dreary basement in Salt Lake, cold wind billowing in through paper thin windows, a naked light bulb illuminating the scene from over head in the unfinished rafters, pouring its harsh flickering light on the scene; where father gets home from a job he hates, the son comes home from a school where he doesn't belong, day after day meeting in that dank basement, once again to lift. A tale of bonding where they causally talk about their days between sets as they rest, start to talk in a way they've never been able to, chatting and laughing and fooling around: they come to know one another in a new light. And the son sees in his father how much the father loves the sport, sees in the way his dad handles the weights and moves his body, with the respect and reverance, that he begins to see there is something more there, something deeper down, both in the sport, and in his father.
Let me tell you a tale of growth! The son becomes hooked. He lifts. And he grows. In no time his body has changed, drastically, a transformation that astounds him, causes him to stand in front of the mirror in delight after showers, instead of averting his gaze as he darts past to his room. In school he is able to walk taller, move more boldly, to be himself more and more. And each day, he wakes up only looking forward to getting back to the basement with his dad, to work out on the new machines they've bought, to tell him some nasty male joke he thought up that he knows his dad will love, to bask in his dad's praise when the father can't believe the growth of the son.
A tale of triumph! It happens. They happen. Girls. They notice. They smile. They come up and touch his arms and their eyes bug out of their sockets. They call their friends over to see how hard this guy's arms are. They scream in delight when they feel his arms. And they talk to him. And talk to him. And he can't wait to get home to tell his dad between sets.
And soon, the son begins playing sports with the boys and they compliment him on his speed and strength. In sports he finds avenues where he can open up, finally be himself. And they like who they see. Soon, he has tried and true friends.
A tale of lasting! The friends come and go, but never the father and son. By now they have moved to a full fledged gym. The father and son are there every day together, people see how much they enjoy working out and come to talk to them about it. Soon, they have trouble working out at the gym because they have too many friends to talk to. And high school comes, and the son plays sports, and he dates, and he does well in school. He has so much on his plate, that he hardly even sleeps. But he does not care: he is alive.
A tale of love (sniff! tear!) All that has come to him through weightlifting, he now recognizes and deeply values. It is never about the amount of weight or the size of the muscles or the looks. The dumbbells and barbells were always a path to himself and to his father, and for that he will never give up the sport. That is weightlifting to him: spiritual and familiar and self.
Yeah, I could tell you that tale. Or I could just tell you the truth. I'm a man and I like big muscles and I like girls liking my muscles and wanting to touch them. And however digusting it sounds when I tell you girls do squeal when they feel my arms (disgustingly AWESOME!), it's true. I am hooked on weightlifting.
So, when thinking about coming to Japan, I had to make sure I'd have a gym to work out in. Ritsumeikan said they did, so I was happy.
First day of school, I headed over after classes. I had made a friend from Tennessee, who also likes to lift and we stepped into the gym, expecting a state of the art, futuristic gym, just like all modern things Japan, complete with high-tech dumbbells, robots that serve you water, and some geisha girls to fan us between sets.
Instead, somehow, we stepped into an airplane hanger left over from the war.
Correction: an airplane hanger that not been left over from the war. One that had been bombed.
The place has falling apart. The floor was lime green, chunks as large as me peeling upwards off the lineoleum. The place was ventilated by vents in the ceilings, so that with it being summer in Japan, it was naturally 290 degrees inside. The equipment looked as if one needed to be wearing long johns made of flannel and have a sturdy handle bar mustache to use them; they seriously probably came out of a 1930's catalouge, remnants of the first ever weightlifting equipment in Japan. Rust was used to lubricate the bars instead of oil. I sat on a bench and it squealed a moan of creaky death.
And the few people using the equipment were a sight themselves. They were a little more updated than the equipment, at least they had gotten to the 1980's. Spandex, and those leotards (are they leotards? You know, the kind of shirts that go down to your groin and you put your legs through it and it kind of thongs you) and nice pink headbands. Plus they were backwards on machines, pulling when they should have been lifting, going laterally when they should have been going perpendicularly, down instead of up, backward instead of forward.
Not the gym we were used to.
Still, a gym's a gym and we could make do with this one. We lifted there, and found it a delight. Soon, we took over and drove most of the others out, as we young American men tend to do. It was great.
Next day, we go back, same routine, only this day, we hear Britney Spears wailing out of the radio. Holy Hell!
We step in and look around. My friend is groaning in pain and I pretend to groan too (actually I'm hoping the music belongs to some cute girls). Much to my chagrin, there's a single girl walking on the slightly broken treadmill, and a whole bunch of guys from the football team doign squats on the rust-o-matic 10000.
We gritted our teeth and waited for the girl to leave with her music. We did manly things while we waited, in order to counter Britney's effects on our manhood, such as bench presses and push ups, and flex our muscles in the mirror, and tell ourselves how cool we are.
Eventually she left. Without the CD. Huh?
The workout was done by then, so we were glad to leave Britney behind.
Next day, we hit the gym, only to here good old Avril Lavigne. Whatandthehunna?
Was that same girl back? We stepped through the door all-a-storm, only to see the same football players, grunting and growling over some dumbbells. No girls. We decided to put an end to this madness (who can work out to pop music? Give us some Incubus or Story of the Year or something). We flipped through the CDs strewn around the radio, pleading, hoping for some refuge as our ears began to bleed.
But only girly-girl CDs...poor dudes. They don't have any other CDs! Radio must be broken too, and they're forced to listen to this crap. Well, no fear! America has come to save the world and will deliver onto these poor souls some awesome rock-and-roll.
My friend is the real god of rock and roll and he whipped up an awesome mix of Incubus and Foo Fighters and Audioslave and The Used and Rage. Walking in to that gym the next day, our faces were full of smug and self-satisfaction--hell, self-adulation. We were ready for those poor, poor football players to grovel at our feet when we delivered them from the Spears hell banshee.
They were over doing pull ups or something, shouting at each other in probable footballery comradery. We ripped out the Britney Spears CD and banished it back to hell, tossing it out the window, and immediately popped in the mix CD, turned the sound level to ear exploding and waited for the glory and the grovelling.
Instead, we were met with about 10 of the angriest faces on the planet, faces that wanted to dismember and stab and crush and annihilate. What? Maybe not big Disturbed fans? Hm, alright will change it to Rage.
Their eyes went golden with flames of fury. They begin ripping off their shirts and grinding their fangs, bringing out concealed chains and knives and flamethrowers. What the hell?
As one they stepped up to us, to where we tried to climb the walls, tried to disappear, to sneak into the protective cocoon of the Calm Like A Bomb. What was happening?
As they circled us, staring us down into cowering fear, one popped open the cd player, pulled out our CD, and ate it. He then,very calmly, never taking his eyes of Death from us, put on another CD. Jessica Simpson.
All fear of death and dismemberment left us. Sheer uncomprehension took over. It was like trying to fathom the Passion, or what God did for the aeons before the Creation, or how many angels CAN dance on the head of a pin. It was inexplicable, unfathomable:
That girly girl music was theirs!
They began singing along and, happy faced, skipped off to do more sit ups. I was completely baffled and, after cleaning up myself with a new pair of shorts, worked out to Jessica Simpson.
Weightlifting suddenly isn't so manly anymore.
(Obviously, I slightly exaggerrated the above. I thought it was fun. The truth of it all is that the Japanese seem to have very different musical taste than we Westerners. I admit I do not know much about music, but my friend lives for music and he says the Japanese' music is much too pop and very commercial. He says it is stuck in the '80's and is not imaginative. I don't know about all that, but I do know that when they listen to American music, the guys DO often choose Avril Lavigne or even Celine Dion or some light jazz. It's really weird for me to hear that in the gym. True, hip hop is insanely popular in Japan, but what I can conclude is that Japanese and American music tastes are very different. Well, to each his own, right? I put up with the pop music in the gym and when I can, I put on some rock and roll and they put up with it. Look at me! I'm promoting international cooperation [or probably just being an idiot like usual. Whatever, semantics-schmantics!
)
Definately is a lot of fun and helps in sports. And the best part, its free. 
