Another Photo of the Cat

The Cat

Bear

Layabouts

Last week the temperature broke 40 degrees in Kumagaya. We seek weekend refuge in air-conditioning. She puts her feet up and rests. I choose the music. Christy Moore, Jonathan Richman, Belle and Sebastian, Gorecki. The cat drifts in and out of sleep, waiting for me to get out of the chair so he can nab it.

All the While a Great Wind Carries Us Across the Sky

Last September we walked the length of the North Alps from Murodo to Kamikochi. This July I put up the photos.

Size is everything when it comes to mountain photos. You want them big to marvel at the vastness of the place and all the tiny details. Take the rock field on the Kamikochi side of Kurobegorodake. There are worlds in that field. Or the ridge to its right shining in the sun. You want these photos big.

(I've accidentally deleted some genuine comments when wading through a swamp of spam to get this thing back in order. Bit of a shame, but I remember what they said.)

That's Football

Ah well. It wasn't to be tonight. And that's ok. Congratulations to them. The joy of sport is as much about being gracious in defeat as it is about being rampantly joyous in victory.

I was offered, in consolation, some scarier thoughts.

What if the new person is a Man. Utd. fan?

What if she supports Urawa Reds?

What if she likes baseball?

Ohhhh Campione

Allegedly there is a game of football on tonight.

Mitsutoge: A Day to Remember

Up near the peak.

No rock climbers on Mitsutoge's walls today.

A day for crampons.

The Cat

Usually he's a meek, docile, well mannered, overweight, spoiled excuse for a member of the brave and wild feline tribe. This morning he was trying to look pantherish.

Tonodake, Nabewariyama: Familiar Route, Strange Weather

An unexpected fog killed the views and deterred the crowds on Idiot's Ridge yesterday, making for an eerie atmosphere in a strangely snowless, unnaturally warm February Tanzawa.

I walked the million steps up in penance for city excess, out of breath, sore in the thigh and embarrassed.

Once up--hours later--the body finally purred, as we cruised the sasa-carpeted ridge between the mountains.

The old man made us udon in the hut. We came down the short route, concentration dangerously low from tiredness. The road out seemed to last forever, as we dreamt of sleep on the train home, hot baths, salon pas and shabu shabu.

A Song and a Place

"Viva la Quinte Brigada" from "Christy Moore: Live at the Point 2006" is the latest song to send me into that magic state of public euphoria you remember forever—born out of that random chemistry between the song you've chosen and the place you happen to be.

Wednesday night around 8.30 I was standing around on that big fucker of a hill leading away from Meguro Station down past the Tavern and on into darkest God knows where, a crazed wall-to-wall grin on my face, fighting the urge to sing out loud or start dancing, out of consideration of the passers-by walking home after a long day.

I was listening to a song of a former bank clerk from County Kildare who balked at the mundanity and upped and left for England with his guitar, touring the pubs of the folk scene, often off his nut, for the best part of a decade, in pursuit of his own road, before finally making it and going on to become the national icon he is today—a Bono of simplicity, without the grand gestures.

I was standing in downtown Meguro because I'd had a craving for nashi goreng since the Asian place in Akasaka shut down. We'd found an Indonesian place with good reviews on Mixi out in further Meguro-ku. I was standing waiting for her, a simple, poetic song coming in through my new Shure earphones (great by the way), when the waves of euphoria—for euphoria is most definitely a wave—started coming over me. And random though it was, I knew immediately it was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life.

Happiness comes as a collection of moments, sometimes years apart, from that simple, random, uncontrollable combination of the right song and the right place.

How does this work?

http://www.milaadesign.com/wizardy.html

I worked this out in mere seconds, of course.

This Year's Model

Felt the urge to take photos yesterday for the first time in months.

Framing somewhat off.

The cat with soft porn lighting.

And a zoom lens, also with soft porn lighting.

There you go.

Corporate Cultures

If you thought Japan was all the same, go work for an agency.

You see them all.

The banks, the breweries, the lycra sellers, the gravestone makers. The curers of our sicknesses, the exploiters of our vanities, the profiteers from our vices, the suppliers of our brands. House builders, gadget makers, copper miners, bond traders.

Conservative monoliths with dark, high-ceilinged buildings and funeral atmospheres. Fashionably white-furnitured IT startups whose bright modern trendiness masks incompetence, brilliance or more of the same. The ones who think they are cool and forward-thinking but aren't; the ones who are proud they aren't but are. The quiet, the hardworking, the incompetent, the naïve. The brash, the proud, the opportunistic, the exploiting. The self-appointed bearers of all burdens; those happily passing through.

Those you respect, those due a fall. The ones time passes by—no idea, no care. The ones who care a lot and still have no idea. The ones we need more than they need us. The ones that know. Those with patience beyond any call of duty, and sweetness to match. Those to crucify, or push off a wall.

The aloof, the anal, the abject, and the rude. The friendly ones, happy, happy. The quietly kind-hearted silently fixing our mistakes. Loud correctors of mistakes not made. The drunks, the socialites, the recluses and the whores. Mutes by day, hedonists by night.

I'm talking companies, not people. There are all kinds out there. At an agency, you don’t get sucked in to only one. You get to step inside, look around, then go home.

Howth Head Circuit: Sunsets, Old Walls and Cottages on Cliffsides

The sun sets over Dublin Bay, seen from the Howth side, on another low winter sky.

Another Howth sunset.

Before the sun went down.

Happy New Year folks. We've fixed our comment spam problem and normal service resumes.

Peak Scenes on Yari

It was weird on Yari's little peak. The celebrant one, in all three of these pictures, (a) was drunk, (b) had just completed the 100 mountains, and (c) very nearly fell off to his death. Very amusing fellow, and quite an achievement in the non-greater scheme of things. He certainly amused me and will remain part of my Yari experience.

The faces have been silhouetted to protect the innocent.

What with the altitude and fear playing tricks with the head and the other characters who were up there, the peak had the feel of a David Lynch film.

More from the North Alps

Sugorokudake and Mitsumatarengeidake, Day 6.

Washibadake, another of the 100 mountains, seen from Mitsumata Sansou.

Another view of Washiba.

A lone hiker stares into the abyss on the Nishakamaone, the at times hairy west ridge route to Yari.

Yakushidake at twilight, the day after we'd gone over it in the fog.

For someone who has spent much more time in the South Alps, this trip showed me the beauty and sheer expanse of their northern cousins. And let's be clear: the "ultimate hike in Japan" is just one of any number of combinations possible in this vast range.

More from Yari

Another Yari view from further down the valley.

Japan's most exposed ladder, leading to the respite of Yari's summit. Never before have I seen a ladder treated with such trepidation and respect. Every face bore a different emotion. In this climber's case, like in mine, fear of death. She got a nice round of applause on reaching the top. For some reason I inspired laughter instead.

The North Alps: Seven Days of Rice and the High Ridge

Yari on the clearest of blue mornings, Day 7. The day before we'd sat on its tiny peak, wondering how the hell we were going to get down.

Sunset at Sugonorikoshi, Day 3. Typhoon 13 had left us stranded, with winds so high to make the formidable Yakushidake impassable. There was nothing else to do but photograph the sunset.

Day 5. The hat reaches the peak of Kurobegorodake, a beautiful mountain in the very depths of the North Alps.

The Ultimate Hike in Japan

The infinitely-annoying-once-you-get-to-know-it Lonely Planet: Hiking in Japan calls the six or seven day hike through the North Alps from Tateyama to Kamikochi the "ultimate hike in Japan", "the hike every Japanese hiker would do if he/she had the time". Well, we've finally made the time.

Seven days walking the high ridges of the North Alps! Not everyone's idea of a dream holiday, and I'm sure we'll be stinking and half dead by the time we finally descend on Kamikochi for a bath, but I can't think of anything I'd rather do. Reports and millions of photos to follow. Here's hoping the ptarmigan's waiting and the weather god she smiles.

Kitadake 2006: Annual Return to the Spiritual Homeland

The view from Hirogawara at the start of the climb. The peak is covered in cloud, as it would be for the long weekend. Note the glacier that marks the Okamba valley route.

As clear as it got on the South Alps ridge, en route to Katanokoya. Later that evening came a storm, which stranded two lone hikers somewhere near the ridge. Both hypothermic and lost, they were lucky they had made reservations in the hut, whose staff went beyond the call of duty to go out into the storm to look for and successfully rescue them. Two shivering souls had lucky escapes that night.

Peak scenes in the alpine fog. A nice bunch of old comrades, who were even slower than us, the slow descenders, celebrate a small victory.

If you want to comment on this entry, it may be best to do so by email, as my comments are out of control, and I can't seem to find the time or inclination to do something about it. Movable type is losing the battle to the spammers.

Bruised Twilight Sky

Izu Oshima: Round the Island, Up the Mountain, Twice

The Road Warrior at rest along the east coast of the island of Oshima, circa 6.00 a.m. Friday morning.

I'm Alan Partridge

"Lynn, you couldn't present a cat."

A series of Alan Partridge clips on You Tube.

World Cup 2006: Born and Died in the Shadows of May 25, 2005

In the end, I won't remember much. All that will last will be the grace and brilliance—and superb chest headbutt—of the genius Zidane, and the comic failure of the charlatan Eriksson and his perennially over-hyped English football team. Most lasting of all, though, will be the preconception proved true: like all the rest, it was condemned to live forever in the shadows of May 25, 2005—the day football died.

It didn't help being in Asia. I didn't watch much of the tournament, because of the crazy start times of most of the games if you happen to live here. I've become the eight-hours-sleep-at-all-costs stick-in-the-mud I used to laugh at in my twenties. The early game, which kicked off at 10pm or 11pm, was the only one within my feeble reach, and I don't remember many good games at that time. Japan and Australia was the one that meant most to me, but it was no feast of football. The Spanish turned it on early—before reverting to type. The much-fancied Argentineans gave a couple of masterful displays of total football—before falling foul to the kindergarden conservatism of their manager. The English coughed and spluttered like fat men running up a hill. The Brazilians loped, uninterested. And Zico's Japan just flopped.

It didn't help either that the refereeing was as comical as Mr. Eriksson. Graham Poll, for one, ruined his career and entered the record books at the same time for his post-modern rule interpretations. Three yellow cards. I'd feel sorry for Mr. Poll, but my memory is long. Poll's gaffes were just the most prominent of the kind of farcical refereeing we've come to expect from these tournaments.

It didn't help that the emerging footballing nations rolled over, for the most part, and never put up a fight. One obvious exception, I hear, is Australia, but their games were on too late for me.

It didn't help that diving marred the tournament yet again. Kurt, "flopping cheats" isn't the term you want. I think you'll find it's "diving bastards". In Christiano Ronaldo, we have the embodiment of all that is ugly about the modern game.

It didn't help that I had to listen to the Gulliver's Travels approach to football commentary adopted here in Japan. Every time a tall player gets the ball, the frenzied Japanese commentator screams out his height. Pi-taa Ku-rau-chi, shinchou 201 cen-chi. Over and over again. The Japanese football commentators weren't in the commentary box. They were at the top of the beanstalk.

But there were some good moments. Team England, for one, provided entertainment value beyond their means. And in the sending off of Rooney, they had their traditional big tournament defining cockup—and another name for the list of national scapegoats, alongside Pearce, Neville, Beckham and Seaman. That the sending off was an indirect consequence of the squad Eriksson initially picked—the squad that included an untried 16 year-old as a forward he never intended to use, at a time when his two main strikers were crocked anyway—is beyond reasonable doubt. This was another England sideshow—this time inspired by their manager. Its seems that a national tabloid media get the football—and the manager—they deserve.

Moving from the ridiculous to the sublime, Zidane decided from the Spain game on to show the world why he is still its best footballer, even at 34. This man has a gift for football beyond anything I've ever seen—and in that I include Maradona. The magnetic close-control, the instinctive knowledge of which way to turn, and a vision to pick out passes that makes Jan Molby look like Razor Ruddock. This man is Denis Bergkamp on cocaine.

But even after the joys of Zidane's performance of the tournament against a surprisingly subdued Brazil, I couldn't make myself stay up to watch the final. And it wasn't just the time difference. I had my mind made up about this World Cup from the start. Truth be told, I'm still living in the shadows of eight minutes of football in Istanbul on May 25, 2005. The greatest game of football I will ever watch. There's a sadness in that. A game that came when football was already on its death bed—beset by the illnesses of Abramovich, ridiculous player wages, and cynicism pervading all aspects of the game. The greatest game of our lives was one final death throe foretelling football's inevitable end.

And after highs like that, the rest would always mean nothing. World Cup 2006 was but a symptom—of a game whose final whistle had already been blown.