Nothing to see here for a while unless the bears have wireless.
I've been stalking the speculation and it now looks almost certain Michael Owen is returning to Liverpool. A very nice outcome.
A few weeks ago, I was in a bike shop in Nakano, where I met for the first time a person with Tourette's Syndrome. He was Japanese and worked in the shop.
Japan doesn't have a lot of swear words, to the degree that to call someone baka (stupid) is akin to some of the insults Mick used to deliver to taxi drivers in Bordeaux.
Every ten seconds, this fellow would splurt out, "Ba," "Ba," "Ba," and stop himself before he could add the "ka" and severely insult the customers.
For the first ten minutes or so, it was a strange experience, and then I got used to it, and the "Ba," "Ba," "Ba," just became an accepted non-part of the conversation.
He knew a lot about bikes. And it was good to see that the shop wasn't afraid to let him deal with customers.
I'm not one for pretending (a) that there is an elusive, real Japan out there tantalizingly just beyond your reach, Daniel-san, or (b) that I know what it is.
But.
Let me tell you two memories.
The first is coming home after a farewell party round about 1998. I was on a crowded train with a Japanese colleague. Suddenly some drunk threw up a few metres down the train. And then, to my amazement, my colleague apologized to me for the stranger's behaviour.
Fast forward now to 2000. A Japanese judo-ka gets robbed of a Gold Medal at the Sydney Olympics (I've told this once before), and I'm incensed by the injustice of it. I tell a Japanese fellow as much the next day and he is shocked. Why would you care? You're not Japanese, he tells me. He was a decent bloke, too, which made his reaction all the stranger. He just couldn't work out why I'd care.
And then, of course, there's this conversation we've all had in some form or another:
Japanese person: "Do you like sushi?"
Non-Japanese person: "Yes, I do."
Japanese person: "Oh, thank you."
What links the stories is the idea of a tight-knit national collective that shares responsibility for one another well beyond the degree we share it for our fellow countrymen in the west, identifying much more strongly as a nation.
I'm not making any value judgments. I'm just asking a question: What are the implications for me, here in Japan, and not a member?
Huge, I'd say.
Take work situations. If I criticise the incompetence of one person, is it going to be taken as a criticism of the whole Japanese people? Sounds ridiculous to people from the west, maybe, but I think it's a real possibility over here with some of my colleagues.
Or the racism argument. If I say Japan is racist, is it taken as an attack on the Japanese people, as opposed to a statement of a problem that exists in all our societies also existing in Japan?
As I said, I'm not trying to shed light on some "real Japan", but I think the implications of its stronger national collective responsibility on us in our everyday lives here is well worth considering.
There are worse crimes than glossing over history.
The Freddy Mercury worshipping continues. Following the Tokyo Metropolitan Government's erecting of a statue to the great man, I found this in a high-school textbook I was proofing tonight:
"Nobody in this world is as cool as Mercury."
The senior editor obviously wasn't as hip and streetwise, crossing out the legend's name and replacing it with "that guy."
I was tempted to cross out "that guy" and replace it with "Hasselhof."
Luckily, someone spotted that the bookshelves behind us were about to collapse on top of us, and we moved. Today even the Japanese panicked.
That one confirmed a question I've long had about earthquakes. Do the big ones always start big or can they build up from a minor tremor until you expect the building to collapse? Today's one started from nothing. It was long and got progressively scarier, until I think we were all worried the building would collapse.
Now, as I sit here typing, I wait for the inevitable aftershocks and hope we've done enough to stabilize the bookshelves behind us. Earthquakes are no good.
My head is sunburnt in stripes from yesterday's bike ride. I got burnt through my helmet and have a striped red sore head. The ride itself was short but sapping, enough to make me question my plans for the upcoming tour.
So with that in mind, let's run away back to safer ground--the mountains. I promised myself I'd finished with Everest books, but it wasn't the case.
I got another one last week--High Exposure: An Enduring Passion for Everest and Other Unforgiving Places. Its writer, climber and filmmaker David Breashears, goes a long way to explaining how I feel about the mountains, moreso than any of the others I've written about before.
Breashears is infused with the spirituality of the Sherpas, who believe the mountain is a god that either gives them permission or refuses to let them climb. To climb, you have to make yourself worthy in the mountain's eyes. He views the mountain as a living presence, not something inanimate there to be conquered. This kind of spirituality, equally balanced with logical analysis and in-depth preparation of every possible angle, is how I think we should approach mountains. Alone, neither facet is enough.
Breashears also has the humility of the wise and awareness of the dangers of greed. Not once in the book does he boast about his ability, despite the amazing achievements of his life. There is a sense he's not doing what he does for anyone but himself. His is no quest for trophies or recognition. So many of the stories are about how expeditions he led decided to turn back, unsuccessful, and a telling undertone to the book is how he partially views Hall and Fischer as succumbing to arrogance and greed in their actions on the mountain in 1996.
He's also not afraid to bluntly discuss his own biggest faults. The description of how his marriage collapsed as he watched, both helpless and entirely at fault, is so sad and so understandable. For reasons he didn't understand himself, he actively distanced himself from his new wife until she was forced to make the decision to end their marriage. This book is also the story of choosing the coward's ending and not even knowing why. It's sad and powerfully honest, and something he didn't need to include. Self-awareness is a dangerous, unforgiving light that doesn't just shine on the good.
But most impressive about Breashear's story is how, from his earliest years, he lived by his own standards and rules, refusing to take conventional routes or compromise about his goals. His route took him from being a laborer/rock-climber in Boulder, Colorado in the '80s, to the man leading the famous expedition to film Everest with a large-format IMAX camera in 1996. From the low vantage point of my conventional life, I am as envious as I am inspired by this path.
Along the way, the reader gets to meet some of the greats of the mountain world--Ed Viesturs, Edmund Hillary, Jon Krakaeur, Tenzing Norgay, Jamling Norgay and many others all flit in and out of this story of the small community of high-altitude climbing.
There's a chapter on the filming in the Italian Dolomites of the Slyvester Stallone film Cliffhanger, and descriptions of an expedition when they tried to find Mallory's Kodak camera, which could have proved whether the Englishman had set foot on Everest's summit some 30 years before Hillary and Norgay.
The Mallory chapter is better, but for me it's all fascinating, calmly written stuff with no need for exaggeration. If ever a story doesn't need embellishing, this is it. And there's also a long-running discussion on how to photograph mountains, a topic close to my own heart.
Breashears is not the writer Krakaeur is, but his craft is strong. In terms of character, strength of purpose, humility, and balanced, understated introspection, however, he leaves them all behind. This book is not just about what he did: it's about why he did it and what he learned. If the unexamined life is not worth living, the honestly examined life is well worth reading. Especially if it's the life of a world-class mountain climber and photographer.
Alright, back to sunburnt heads, the Japanese government, and the daunting world of bikes.
The hot topic is privatisation. Next month the LDP might fall because of Koizumi's thwarted attempts to privatise Japan Post.
I don't really understand it as a concept. Public companies are protected and inefficient, whereas private companies are competitive and efficient. Okay.
So how do you make a public company efficient? Make it private. Because if it's competitive, it's automatically going to be efficient.
But aren't there also inefficient private companies? And wouldn't it be nuts to suggest they are inefficient because they are private? Saying a kebab shop should be nationalized for not making a profit would definitely be nuts. So why not the same the other way around?
My understanding is that the huge postal savings funds in Japan Post are currently being used by Japanese politicians and bureaucrats to fund ridiculous, unnecessary construction projects in rural areas through the FILP (Zaito) shadow-budget scheme, which helps keep the bureaucrats and politicians in power, helps keep 10% of the population employed in the construction industry, helps destroy the Japanese countryside, but ultimately does nothing to make the Japanese economy competitive. And hence the need for change.
But how will making Japan Post a private company achieve that? It will certainly reduce labour costs and make some people very rich in the process. But will it mean that the trillions of yen in postal savings is turned to uses that will benefit the Japanese economy and people? Or will it just make the private owners very rich? And is there even any guarantee the private owners won't continue using the funds the exact same way they have been used before?
Go on, explain it all to me if you like, because I haven't got a clue. I need someone to sit down with me for about four years to help me understand economic theory.
What's the British English equivalent of the American English adjective "neat"?
Saturday's bold plans fell flat when I was sucked into a techie-touristy-porn vortex in Akihabara and couldn't find the river I needed to cross.
The goal was to cycle out to the Ichikawa Bridge that borders Chiba and Tokyo, one of the main bridges over the Edogawa River.
Ironically, people have been known to be arrested on that very bridge on suspicion of bicycle misappropriation. It was to be a ride back into my past on a bike I paid for myself.
It was also the night of the summer fireworks on the Edogawa River, the essence of Tokyo summer and a great photo opportunity. Couples in yukatas and geta sandals, the food stalls, the beer--and the sky lighting up above them. It sounded like a plan.
But as the fireworks were due to start flying at 7.15, I found myself sucked into the vortex of Akihabara, and swirling in hopeless circles through the geeks, the tourists, and the porn, a helmeted gombeen trying desperately to break free from the triple forces of the electric town and find the river I needed to cross. I knew I was going round in circles, but the combined triple forces of the dark side (geeks, tourists, and porn - can forces get any darker?) were just too strong.
When I say the river, I mean the Sumida. All roads in Tokyo eventually lead to the Sumida, so to get out to East Tokyo, at some point you have to cross it. On Saturday night, belly empty, stress well up from the freaky forcefield around the electrictown, the fireworks already half-over without me, I gave up and went home. You're never too long-term to get lost and disoriented in Tokyo.
On Sunday, I would try again, successfully. It was easy, really. You just follow Yasukuni Dori all the way until it brings you to the Ryogoku Bridge. No need to go near Akihabara at all. Crossing the Sumida will lead you toward Chiba. Turning right will put you on the lovely cycling course along the river. If only I'd looked at a map on Saturday night, or eaten before heading out.
To cycle in Tokyo is to get to know its rivers and its roads. The Arakawa, the Sumidagawa, the Edogawa, and the Kandagawa, to name just a few rivers. Yasukuni Dori, Gaien Higashi Dori, Meiji Dori, the Koshu Kaido, to name a few roads. There's something very special about putting the whole city together in your head as you roll around connecting the rivers and the roads.
It's also to learn to avoid the vortexes. I'd been sucked in once before at Ikebukuro, that time a vortex of vigorous Saitama shoppers in high-heels, eighties prostitute belts and fake tans, but Saturday night's one in Akihabara will take some beating.
Find the rivers, learn the roads and how to avoid the myriad vortexes--that's my advice on cycling in Tokyo.
And Akihabara Electric Town needs to be renamed: there's a lot more than electrical goods being sold there these days.
I didn't expect to see this fellow in a pond at the grimy, overgrown Hibiya Park. This park, like many of the centre-pieces of Chiyoda Ward, could do with some upkeep.
I challenge you to read this sentence:
"The amount shall be paid with interest on the amount of refund at 7.3% per annum for the number of days counted from the day that follows the day on which one month elapsed from the next day of the date of request, to the day on which the decision of payment of refund was made."
I'm as guilty as anyone, but here is what I find most boring about the human race: the way we project ourselves in a good light, all the time dismissing others, instead of presuming we might be wrong and talking about it. The way we believe, inherently, that we are always right.
This extends from personal relationships to international politics. As soon as someone or some country starts stressing how right they are, I start doubting them and wondering how they can be so sure and why they need to stress it so much.
We're all guilty, but the most guilty are the extremes.
And let's be honest. If you believe whole-heartedly that you are completely right in everything you do in life, you've put yourself up to the realm of the infallible. Doesn't matter whether you're left or right, believer or atheist. Once you climb on the high-horse, you stop thinking, stop communicating, and become intransigent. And once you become intransigent, you become boring.
Here's a philosophy. I think, therefore I may well be wrong. Others think, and are human too, therefore they may well be wrong too. Let's talk.
When you have time, try The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene, for a good, humble, understanding, non-ideological, no high horses, philosophy for life. Here's a book that demonstrates clearly that you can see beauty and common points in your most hated enemy, that we are all the same, and all worthy of love, and not in a doctrinal way.
I can't recommend this book enough, especially if you think you are always right in whatever it is you believe, and especially if you dismiss others because of that.
Seven million for Peter Crouch but Liverpool are not in the market for Michael Owen, despite having first option.
I hope the faith in Morientes and Cisse pays off. If not, the euphoria and reverence felt now among Liverpool fans will be quickly replaced by other contagious emotions.
With Houllier, people look back to a substitution as the point it all went wrong, when he took off Hamann against Leverkusen. If next season shows the Champions League win to be a blip—i.e. Liverpool finish fourth or so in the Premiership and do not win the Champions League (a likely scenario in a season of rebuilding)—it's not hard to see a point in the future when the knives comes out, or what moment they'll choose as when it went wrong for Benitez.
Yesterday I took the new bike out for a spin in the sweltering Tokyo summer heat and humidity. It must have been well up in the thirties yesterday here.
The bike rode very well. You get a lot of response for very little effort with a good bike. I think I rode about 25 kilometres in total. The route was familiar at first, circling the Palace using Uchibori Dori, down into Marunouchi and the heart of Tokyo.
From there I did something different, as I ventured into the unknown (for me) realm that is Tokyo's Chuo Ward. After getting lost a few times along the way, I finally made it down to the bicycle course that runs along the Sumida river. This is very a nice course: no cars, cool air coming down the river, and beautiful views.
It's also a ghetto for the Tokyo homeless community. Some of them are very well established along the river, to the degree that shanty town might be a more appropriate term than homeless community. Many were enjoying the strong sun, sunbathing and sleeping on the benches along the way.
The river was up to dangerous levels. Another couple of feet and it will burst its banks. Today the forecast is for thunderstorms; tomorrow is for more of the same. My guess is the Sumida will overflow and flood the shanty town set up along it in the next two days. There are big disadvantages to settling along a flood plain.
Crossing the Chuo Ohashi bridge, I moved down into Tsukishima, one of Tokyo's shitamachi areas. It is famous for its Monja Street. Being Sunday, many of the old restaurants were closed and there were relatively few people about. A TV drama was being filmed in the middle of the street. The shopkeepers stood around hassling whoever was passing by to come eat their monja. They were being too pushy so I gave the gooey Tokyo delicacy a miss.
Back down and across the Sumida again and into Tsukiji, the fishmarket on the edge of Ginza. Two massively different worlds side by side. The Kabukiza theatre was advertising a Kabuki adaptation of Shakespeare--a new concept for me. Ginza was its usual Sunday self, and having cycled through it before I knew to bypass it this time. Over to the Yaesu exit of Tokyo Station, across the Yamanote tracks and back toward the Palace, Uchibori Dori, and the way home.
It was pleasant rolling along, but the bike is so smooth I felt I was cheating. In the evening, I frustrated myself taking it apart and practicing putting it in the Rinko bag, the special bag used in Japan for transporting your bike on the train system. I am about as mechanically minded as a goat.
