iPhone 4

I was riding my bike through the not-quite-rain-not-quite-snow this morning, my face numb, my hands frozen, trying my best to think of something, because anything at all is better than being conscious of the inescapable frigidity, when I starting thinking about my iPhone. The ability to send your location via text to other iPhone users through Google Maps is really hard to wrap your head around. It's a navigational revolution! In just a few years, no one will ever be lost. The very concept of "lost" will cease to be. Why, just this weekend, I was able to invite my friend to a cafe in Harajuku just by sending him a Google Maps pin. I almost completely forgot he was coming, I, hunched over a table, doing my best to look at some photos James was showing me. Turning my head this way and that, I fought the glare. The pictures were from his recent trip to Kyoto. And then, I was aware that my friend was behind me, his hand gently clasping my shoulder,

(by the way, and this is really important, but the friend I was waiting for is my ex-boyfriend. I stopped talking to him after he decided to erase me from his life following our break-up 9 months ago, but over the course of the last few months, against my better judgment, I started talking to him again. I don't know what I was thinking. It seemed harmless enough starting out. He would start talking to me on Skype, small talk, the litany of usual complaints about his work situation. He mentioned to me that he was taking the TOEIC the following month. Would I talk to him on voice chat, y'know so he could get some English practice? I trembled at my keyboard. My face felt hot. I told him that I didn't think I could. He naturally asked for an explanation. I replied that I just.... just couldn't. He said that he understood. I spilled tears on the trapezoidal area of tatami between my legs, holding back the bile and vitriol pent up inside me for months. Why did he do that to me, I mean FUCK what the hell is wrong with someone to do that do another person, to reduce them to a handshake?

The whole experience was very enlightening for me. It proved to me something that I already knew, somewhere in the deeper parts of my being that I try not to look at. Turning my head this way and that, I fought the glare. I couldn't live if I continued to harbor these feelings. I couldn't carry that weight on my shoulders. It was too hot, too heavy. "And so my burden I began to divest". Don't worry, I didn't try to kill him. I just thought those lyrics might sound rather poetic here. But don't worry, it's nothing. I mean, just don't look too hard into it. I'm not trying to draw any parallels between myself and a fictional child murderer. Like, seriously, just drop it.

It's so bright in here.

I resolved to meet him. We made plans to meet up one night in January, some organic food buffet in Shinjuku, so like him. I was hoping to get him alone, to tell him that I was still mad as hell, to lay bare the unresolved, to vomit my emotional intestines across the dinner table, to scar him, to make him pay. He asked if he could bring his friend. This was war. I invited my friends. We all had a big, uncomfortable dinner together like a big dysfunctional family. He punched me in the arm like a good friend, said that he felt nostalgic upon seeing my bag. I was bursting. Pulling my stitches taught, I made it through dinner. Although, for most of the second half, I could barely keep up with the conversation, couldn't hear it above the screaming in my skull, GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT. I wanted nothing more than to leave.

A few days later, we talked again on Skype. Same small talk, same litany of complaints. Then, he casually remarked, "Well, you were the man that I loved". This is when I finally flipped my shit. I couldn't let this stand. This was Lexington & Concord. This was Morris Island. This was Pearl Harbor, and if you think it's culturally insensitive of me to say that, you can suck a bag of dicks. I had blood in my eyes. Turning my head this way and that, I fought the glare.

Since "letting him have it", things have been better. I've found new things to feel emotionally unstable about, sure, but my relationship with my ex-boyfriend has finally reached the point where I can look at him without frothing at the mouth, talk to him without gnashing my teeth. In a twist that I would never have seen coming, I've actually been hanging out with him a lot and, dare I say it, enjoying his company. I detoxed, flushed out the impurities, and down in my core was the sad and undeniable fact that I really do enjoy being around him. So I invited him for coffee yesterday.)

so I turned around all bright and cheery-like, surprised but happy to see him. Oh yeah, I thought. I invited him. It's amazing what they're doing with technology nowadays.

Aim for my skeleton, synthesizer!

For my birthday, Marisa got us two tickets for The Antlers/Local Natives show last Monday. We'd been talking about it briefly the week before; we both sort of wanted to go, but it's on a school night and the show is in Shibuya, and it's a foreign act so the prices are priced a little higher than they reasonably should be, and we'll probably cry all the way through The Antlers and who the hell is Local Natives anyway, oh yeah, that guy I met when I was waiting in line to take a shower at Fuji Rock was telling me how impressed he had been by Local Natives the day before, had he said that they were like a mix between Fleet Foxes and who was it again? I don't remember. Let's not go.

But she bought the tickets as a birthday present in an effort to force both our hands. As soon as she told me of this brilliant plan I was convinced. It was a brilliant plan.

Despite having been to numerous concerts around Japan during my time here, never had I before seen such a large number of hipsters in one area at one time as when I entered the venue. To be fair though, I should clarify that the room was filled with Brooklyn-style American hipsters rather than the Japanese hipster aesthetic which is both prolific and utterly different. I haven't quite figured out how it works, but I've surmised that it involves wearing Cosby-like Christmas sweaters and leggings beneath your jean shorts. I wore my turtleneck in an attempt to seem both existential and vaguely French, a wardrobe choice I thought would be appropriate for The Antlers set.

As the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed, I suddenly realized that I'd had it all wrong. It wasn't Local Natives opening for The Antlers; The Antlers were opening for Local Natives. I hoped that maybe it would be like the Mew/Flaming Lips Show with two 90-minute sets. It wasn't.

It didn't matter, however. They played 5 songs, and those were the only songs I was really interested in hearing anyway.

The Antlers are not one of my favorite bands. They had an amazing, amazing album in 2009, but why do I think that the album was so amazing? In retrospect, my opinion is based on the three or four songs from the album that I really like, songs with the lyrical intensity of a thousand suns. Musically, they're really quite mediocre, I think. They use a lot of melodic repetition and looping noise, which can be interesting but does not a good band make. The lyrics, on the other hand, god, the heartrending lyrics! How I feel moved by "Bear" every time I hear it, even two years later; how I can sing it at the top of my lungs in my house even when I'm all alone and feeling tiny. Listening to "Bear" on the train one day, I distinctly remember texting Marisa saying, "Please, never, ever get pregnant. Unless you mean to".

It was short, I had a beer and was extremely happy. I looked around, but it was impossible to tell whether anyone else had enjoyed it as much as we had. The room was full of bearded faces, arms crossed and indifferent.

Then, Local Natives. Marisa and I moved to the back of the room so we could have a better view. We didn't feel the need to be close to the stage, and evidently a lot of other people did. I eagerly awaited hearing something new, something that obviously had quite a following in Japan judging by the audience response before the show even began. They began playing. It was... something. They were certainly more upbeat, more energetic than the opening act. They did have that Grizzly Bear/Fleet Foxes-like harmony going on too. The five-piece band consisted of two guitars, a bass, a keyboard and drums. It was loud. I felt completely bored.

Moments of brilliance would occassionally shine through (a cover of Talking Heads' "Warning Signal" and the final song, a song that they introduced by saying that it had been written far before any of the other material we had heard that night and which was about working really hard on something and not being able to tell if it's garbage or not and how impotent that can make you feel as an artist), but overall I just felt bored. BORED.

This blog was originally started as a means for me to both keep track of and inform others about my activities in Japan. Part of that was because I've never felt like a good writer (or at least a person who could write anything good) and thus, it wasn't worth trying to extend its purpose beyond the pragmatic. Lately, however, I've felt that to just chronicle my life would not only bore others, but also myself. Also, I want to try to be a better writer (or at least a person who writes better than someone who doesn't write anything good). Okay. Tangent aside, my point is that I'm really writing this update because I want to talk about music and music criticism and why it's hard for me to think of a more unnecessary profession.

Music (and I think a lot of art, although not all art follows suit) is really not up for anything outside of personal criticism. I feel that this is especially true of music in that it's a wholly abstract art; there's no visual component (well, music taken alone anyway). No concrete base in an image. I know that there's music theory and that some major chords always sound triumphant and some minor chords will always sound sad, but all that aside, I don't feel that there's any specific formula for making music. Music doesn't have to be pleasing to be good, just like how no one would say that Duchamp's Fountain was aesthetically beautiful. Like John Cage or Alvin Lucier's work.

I am sitting in a room.

Using words to describe music is ultimately futile. Even your best approximation is too tainted by your perception of it. If it were a painting, even an utterly abstract one, you can still probably achieve a more objective representation of it through language than if it were a song. It has its basis in shape, color, line. With music, people fumble around, trying to describe the "sound" by comparing to another "sound". Hence, the stupid comparisons I've made throughout this post. After all, no one describes a song to someone by saying "Oh man, there's this great new song where the chorus goes A#, G, F, Cb!!!!" (Do music nerds do this? Someone let me know.)

When the crowd went crazy for Local Natives, I wasn't surprised. I just didn't get it. This became painfully evident to me when I met someone once who genuinely found the music of Taylor Swift to be moving. I don't get it, but I can't deny the sincerity of your emotion. You say tomato, I say tomato.

I said that I was going to do a "best of 2010" list or something a while ago, but forget that. It's a stupid idea in a self-congratulating, self-propagandizing sort of way. Instead, here's my favorite song of 2010.

Here's "Bear" by The Antlers, my favorite song of 2009:

Last, here's a song that I've just had running through my head this week:

Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Your Grievances

It's coming. I'm almost 24 years old. Yes, dear parents, you read that correctly. I was born nearly 24 years ago.

My two week long birthday celebration has been pretty great so far.

Akiko and I decided to have a combination birthday bash again this year. Since she's leaving this Saturday, it also turned into a bit of a going away party for her. We kept it small this year, just going to Sambandha and karaoke.

There they are!

Nothing makes you feel as valued as a birthday party. It's a time when the people who really like you get together and celebrate YOU. Even if you don't necessarily want them to. I always feel uncomfortable saying things like, "Well, it's MY birthday" on my birthday. I don't think being brought successfully into the world entitles you to anything other than a momentary congratulations. Being a friend, however, does. These people gather not because they think it's great that you made it out of the womb; they gather because they think you're a good person who they like and who they value their relationship with. It makes you all fuzzy. I love my friends.

Sarah drew me this fan-tastic picture of Chopper. I honestly can't fathom how good it is.

Or check out this sweet thing:

Really, Momoko? REALLY?

Later in the evening, once I found myself stonking drunk and hungry after my karaoke session, we went up to Omiya for some ramen. It was there, illuminated from behind as if it were the very will of heaven, that I happened upon the face of true partydom.

BEHOLD!

Last weekend I went on a tour of a sake factory. I went with the people from SIEN, that jolly group who I went on the walk with last November. It managed to be both educational and delicious.

An anecdote: As we were ushered into the room full of antique bric a brac, the president of SIEN, Ryoji, took the lid off an antique medicine box, exposing a tiny, yellow box within. It looked like a pack of playing cards to me. It turned out to be the Showa Era version of Midol ("now with SAFFRON!"). The kanji on it basically said that it's for stopping up a bloody vagina. The upside to this really gross story is that I learned an out-of-date word for vajayjay: 子宮 (shikyuu). The characters mean "child" and "Shinto shrine/palace". Wow.

This kindly old lady said to me in English, "You're wearing a very thin jacket, young man". I replied, "Thanks, Mom."

This is how they do it.

That evening I saw the live action Gantz film with some friends. It was so bad, and not good-bad. Just bad-bad.

Sunday, northeastern Saitama had the final, final going away dinner for Akiko at her favorite restaurant in Satte, Road Station. Now, I'd never been to Road Station. When I first moved to Japan, I asked Akiko about her favorite place to eat in Satte and she mumbled something about sausages and drew me a map. For the next year and a half, Marisa lovingly referred to it as The Sausage Place, but we could never find the time to actually GO there. We wanted to go with Akiko. This was our last chance.

Road Station is, frankly, bizarre. It's a sausage, pizza, and pasta restaurant inside of a log cabin owned by a Chinese couple. Over the loudspeaker, a chintzy version of "Like a Virgin" in Mandarin extends the tendrils of its slightly unsettling ambiance over a table bathed in twinkling Christmas lights. Then, a giant sausage shows up.

Rally the troops! Attack!

Obviously, it's my new favorite restaurant.