Tokyo Rose didn't like my Credit Score

 In the early 1980’s, I worked for my stepdad, a real estate developer and attorney, as a property manager on one of his residential housing projects. It was a good gig as it afforded a place to live with enough flexibility to continue my college education. Being a newlywed, and basically poor, having a full-time job plus a free roof over my head was hard to beat. Stepdad Jerry, aka BJL, wrote me a check every two weeks which I deposited in my checking account. Despite the modest wage, I was feeling pretty flush. What I didn’t have was a credit card.

In those days having a credit card was still somewhat of a novelty and a great credit score was required to get one—nothing like the present where I receive multiple offers daily. So even though I was working full time, didn’t have a big mortgage, or consumer debt, I was turned down when I applied at my local credit union. Having just returned from living in Japan for six years during which time I showed virtually no credit history in the U.S., was the likely disqualifier. Perhaps the higher-ups at the bank thought I had been homeless for the last six years, or worse, in jail. In any event, I was deemed too high a risk to get the coveted plastic. Given that I needed to buy various maintenance items for the housing project, Jerry gave me one of his cards and said to sign his name when needed. While not exactly legit, it seemed harmless and if I paid him back before the card statement arrived, he didn’t seem to care if I used it for personal items.

Backing up for a moment, Stepdad, was a bit of a misnomer since he had married mom in the same year my wife and I had married, and he hadn't moved into the homestead until I had left the nest. Still, he had been in the picture since I was a boy, and he had been a good father figure. I think mom would have raised an eyebrow or two if she had known that our “quality time” often consisted of shooting pool, tooling around in his Corvette Stingray, blasting trees and sometimes an unlucky duck with his 10-gauge shotgun (yes, a 10- gauge) and drinking beer at a local ski area. A pretty cool stepdad and polar opposite of my biological dad.

My "biological dad," a term that no one from my generation would have understood beyond the obvious, now lived in Chicago, so my bride and I would make an occasional trip down to Chi Town to see dad and stepmom. Another stepparent I never lived with.

I had the very good fortune to marry a wonderful Japanese woman who is also the world’s greatest shopper. Well, let me amend that to say she is the world's greatest window shopper. Therefore, it was only natural for us to check out the near northside of Chicago known for numerous Japanese stores plus we knew a Japanese couple who lived in the area willing to act as tour guides. 

During one trip, Kayoko-San, the better half of the above stated couple, took us out for a tour in the neighborhood near Clark and Belmont streets about six blocks down from Wrigley Field. I'd read that the original “Little Tokyo” had been closer to Clark and Division, but the Japanese influence had waned after the Sandburg Village urban development project of the 60’s. In any event, there were still Japanese shops in the corridor between West Addison and Belmont and it was time to check them out.

As we followed our guide down Clark Street, we turned the corner onto Belmont and stepped into a two-story brick building with the sign, J. Toguri Mercantile Co. Oriental Gift Shop, in large block letters. The name didn’t mean anything in particular to me as we passed beneath it. Inside the dimly lit shop were tea sets, dishes, ornamental swords, incense and various other Japanese gifts and crafts. The shop reminded me of the Ben Franklin store in my old neighborhood. What we would have called a “Five and Dime.” In other words, wooden floors, a bit musty, lots of interesting novelties, and a certain smell of history and goods sitting on the shelf too long. I browsed the isles with interest but found nothing I couldn’t live without. Conversely, my wife, the great shopper, had already bagged a teacup set and a pair of iron scissors used in Ikebana—the art of Japanese flower arranging. We browsed a bit more and then our guide, looking antsy, asked if we were going to buy something. I looked around and noticed that we were the only people in the shop other than the clerk, an older Japanese woman in kimono standing behind the checkout counter. My dear wife wanted to check out other Ikebana supplies, so I drifted to the rear of the shop to buy time. K-San followed me back and again applied the pressure to get rolling. 

“Well, are you going to buy something?” I looked at her and smiled, shrugged, then looked towards my wife who was busily checking out items on a shelf. It was then that our friend mumbled,

 “They say the woman behind the counter is Tokyo Rose.” I looked at our friend then looked back at the woman behind the counter. I’d heard the name from newsreels and World War II movies about the English-speaking Japanese woman who had done propaganda broadcasts for Imperial Japan. The sultry-voiced orator who was known for phrases like, “Hey Joe, wouldn’t you rather be back home with your best girl?” She was from Chicago?

I looked a little closer. She wore a dark brown kimono, and her hair was pulled up in a bob. She was perhaps in her early 70’s. Maybe a little taller than most Japanese women? Our helpful friend, acting as if we had a bus to catch, was giving me the look, so I walked over to where dear wife was checking out flower arranging accessories on a lower shelf. She looked up and sensed that we were on the clock. Selected items in hand we headed to the counter. “Rose,” neither greeted us nor smiled. She simply rang up the items and said, “$37.50.” A somewhat bland encounter for my growing expectation of meeting a famous figure from history, and a convicted war criminal no less.

Time to fork over payment. I had enough cash in my l wallet, but for some reason, I thought it would be a great idea to pull out BJ's plastic to show I was a high roller. Mistake one.

Rose took my card and placed it in the manual card imprinter. (These were used before electronic readers and imprinted the cardholder’s information onto a three-sheeted receipt). I signed the slip and handed it back. Rose, still holding my card, turned it over and compared the signatures. The back of the card read, “BJ Loftsgaarden,” Jerry's Signature. 

“It doesn’t look the same,” she said. Eyeing me and the two signatures. Now, I dare anyone to forge “BJ Loftsgaarden,” without significant practice. Especially when my own surname has only four letters. Rose, still holding up the card like it was a piece of evidence at trial, looked at me apparently waiting for an explanation. I shrugged, and smiled, offering no explanation. Mistake two.

A strained silence ensued in our now expanding military tribunal. It felt very awkward to be under scrutiny by a famous figure from the greatest event of the Twentieth Century. It was as if Douglas MacArthur had just caught me shoplifting. She clearly thought I was trying to pull a fast one. All made worse by the stupid grin I couldn’t seem to get off my face. It was then that our friend came to the rescue.

“His father is a famous lawyer in Minnesota,” as if to say the crime of forgery could be forgiven because stepdad was a big-shot lawyer and thus good for $37.50. Rose frowned and stuffed the Merchants Copy in the cash drawer. Whew. We grabbed our goods and headed out the door before she changed her mind and called Chicago’s finest. Of course, she was right to check the signature on the card, especially in the pre-online days, but that didn’t detract from the overall weirdness of the encounter. An historical figure who now seemed to be a joyless shopkeeper. Was it true? Was she Tokyo Rose, or was it just a nasty rumor or urban legend? Time to do a bit of research.

It was true. Tokyo Rose had been our cashier at the shop her family owned on the northside of Chicago. Iva Toguri was born in California in 1916. It appears she grew up like any other American kid of the times and knew little of Japan, beyond the heritage of her parents. A visit to Japan just prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor stranded her in Japan and left her without a country or means of support. She was told to convert to Japanese citizenship by the Imperial Army Kenpeitai secret police. Iva steadfastly held on to her American citizenship despite pressure, and eventually found a position as a typist at the Japan Broadcasting Company (NHK) to support herself. She was later recruited at NHK by an Australian POW who produced an English-Language radio program called, The Zero Hour.

The Zero Hour consisted of playing popular American music of the day and propaganda news reports aimed at GI’s serving in the Pacific Theater. According to the show's Producer Williamson, Iva was his choice to headline the broadcast specifically because of her baritone, sultry voice. He later explained his reasoning.

“I wanted the show to be burlesque and so comical that no one would mistake it for actual propaganda.”

 There were other women who were pressed into broadcasting service as well, but Iva became synonymous with the fictional persona of Tokyo Rose—a nickname coined by GI’s and one that was never used during broadcasts. Instead, Iva went by the on-air name of “Orphan Ann.” A combination, I suppose, of Orphan Annie—a popular comic strip at the time, and Orphan, which was a euphemism for American soldiers supposedly “orphaned” in the Pacific by the Empire of Japan. Iva was so good at the broadcasts that her Japanese superiors wouldn’t let her quit even when it was clear that Japan would lose the war.

I listened to archived broadcasts and I would have to say that she was pretty darn good at her job, if her job was to tease Americans. Further readings suggested that few troops found it demoralizing and most found it comical and somewhat comforting.

Bud Nakasone, a former professor of mine and author of the book Nisei Soldier, a collection of stories about Japanese Americans in World War II, wrote that an innocent Iva was railroaded by an overzealous press and a racist post-war public. I will admit that seven years in prison for war crimes seems awfully harsh for the final verdict of one count of treason for a broadcast that supposedly gave away military secrets. Hard to gauge post-war sentiment by today’s standards, but I began to wonder about what made many so rabid about a seemingly harmless loyal American who had been pressed into propaganda service by the Empire of Japan.

My theory is that beyond the sensationalism of an over-egger media, it was the taunting nature of the broadcasts that drove the desire for retribution. Whether she wrote the scripts or not, the essence was to stick her tongue out and mock the GI’s. Or in her case, verbally show a little leg and tell the troops that they were fools for going to war and wouldn’t they really be better off Stateside with their best girl on their arm? Maybe there is something in us that wants revenge when we are taunted. Don’t we love it when the cocky boxer gets knocked out in the end? Or when a trash-talking football player gets blasted on the next play? Perhaps it was the on-air statement that eventually sent her to prison regarding the Battle of the Coral Sea, “Now that all your ships are sunk, how will you get home orphan? Amazing!”

Back home and reflecting on my brush with 20^th Century history, I decided it was probably not a good idea to use someone else’s credit card even with their approval. A short time later, I received a pre-approved application for an American Express Card in one of those mailings targeting college students. I applied and received my first credit card, thus ending my alternate persona as B.J. Loftsgaarden. Time to straighten up and fly right, as they used to say. Thankfully, my little credit card fraud on the streets of Chicago wasn't scrutinized by the International Court of Justice. What I am sure of is that I’m in serious trouble if Axis Sally ever gets wind of my credit score!

                                                    ©Copyright 2024 James Noah

 

 

Hattori Hanzo comes to 

Avon, Indiana

 

Living on the west side of Indianapolis in the fast-growing town of Avon, it comes as no surprise when I see another mega-sized warehouse popping up in what was previously a cornfield. Indy being at the center of the country and aligned with I-70 east-west from Baltimore to Utah, I-65 north-south from the Gulf to Lake Michigan, and I-74 heading to Davenport and Rock Island, it’s the perfect location to put up rows of warehouses for manufacturers and cargo haulers. Plus, there are lots of cornfields to plow under. So, when I saw yet another row of white boxes going up a couple of miles down the road near I-74, I thought, well, there goes another cornfield. Little did I know that one of Japan’s most famous samurai ninjas from the 16^th Century was about to show up in Hendricks County and may very well hang out at the Starbucks at Interstate exit #68. If you had the awful mental image of a garish-looking plastic feudal-era warrior planted in front of Star B’s ala Ronald McDonald, let me set your mind at ease.

In an effort to connect the east to west routed interstates of I-65, I74, and I-70, the Ronald Reagan Parkway Project was started about ten years ago. Unfortunately, the northern-end connection to I-65 currently terminates in another Indiana cornfield about ten miles short, but I’m not here to quibble about never ending road construction projects when sword-wielding samurai and American presidents are on the docket. As mentioned, warehouses are springing up on either side of Ronnie R., like destroying angels in the backyard after a week of rain. So, it was on the southside of I-74 behind the newly opened McDonalds and Starbucks, or Staba, as the Japanese call it, that I saw Hanzo and it appears he is now in the warehouse business.

Actually, it was the “Hanzo” signage on the side of an iceberg-sized warehouse that caught my attention. Hanzo, hmm, I guess that makes sense. Han can mean shipping, or transport in Japanese and so, or zo can mean to send, so transport company seemed logical. There are several Japanese logistics firms in the area, and this looked like another one serving the automotive and warehousing industries. Nevertheless, I’ve learned from experience that my preconceived notions about Japan are often wrong despite having lived there at various times over the past five decades. Time to pull out my trusty Farmer’s Almanac and find out what this Hanzo business is all about and why he's hanging out with Hoosiers.

As usual, my guess was way off. It turns out that the name Hanzo has nothing to do with transport or delivery. It’s an American shipping and warehouse firm named after the 16^th Century ninja warrior, Hattori Hanzo. Well, duh, I should have guessed that. According to their website, Hattori Hanzo is their namesake due to his ability to slice through problems and tackle any shipping and warehousing challenges. I get it. Perfect analogy for freight handling. Really? Time to get back to the Almanac for further investigation on just who this Double H fellow was.

I was familiar with the name Hattori Hanzo as a figure from Japanese history and the leader of the Iga ninja. I think most Japanese would be familiar with the name as well, although probably wouldn’t know much beyond his characterization in film and video games. The Hanzo Company website describes Hanzo as a samurai who could kill with a single stroke, protect the emperor, and unify of the country. While I would certainly give kudos to these folks for coming up with an original moniker, the bio on Mr. Hanzo is not quite how things went down in the waning days of the 16^th Century. Or, as we used to say in the old neighborhood, that’s not quite your cat.

Hanzo lived during what is known as the Sengoku Jidai, or Warring States Period (1467-1568). As you might imagine, it was a period of power struggles between clans and fiefdoms for control and domination of the country. During that period and for most of Japanese history for that matter, the emperor held little power and it was not until the collapse of the feudal system in 1868 and the beginning of the modern era known as the Meiji Restoration that the emperor had any far-reaching authority. So as far as I can tell, Hanzo wasn’t protecting any emperors, or winning battles with his sword. Despite the aesthetic beauty and deadly nature of the Japanese katana, it had limited use on the Sengoku battlefield. The yari, or spear, and the newly imported matchlock were more effective in the large-scale engagements of the day.  As for the claim that he helped unify Japan, we will have to give him a bit more credit.

According to historical records, Hanzo was a samurai in the service of a regional warlord known as Tokugawa Ieyasu, Hanzo was known for his skill in military strategy, espionage, and assignation. It was Tokugawa, not the emperor, who unified Japan through savvy political maneuvering, a bit of luck, and with the assistance of Hanzo’s and his Iga ninja. Tokugawa and his descendants went on to hold power for the next three-hundred and fifty years. Not a bad run if you’re in the warlord racket. The current tv series Shogun is loosely based on the story of English navigator William Adams and Tokugawa Ieyasu. Not sure what all this has to do with third-party logistics, but maybe espionage and clandestine ops are a big thing in the freight business.

I would also give props to Mr. Hanzo for his staying power as a pop culture icon. I mean, how many sixteenth-century warlord sidekicks end up in Quinten Terentino movies running sushi bars in Okinawa, or as a bad-ass video game character who now rebrands himself as a logistics guy in central Indiana? Now that’s what I would call a diversification!

Needing a break from the exhausting work of writing humorless prose, I stopped in at the new Staba out front of Mr. Hanzo’s place of business to see if they had my favorite Nitro Cold Brew. They did and I sat down to enjoy my view of corn stubble waiting to become a warehouse. When at S&B, I try to be polite and not stare at the purple hair, neck tattoos, or laptop hobos, but it’s hard work. Having been a “hobo” myself, I know the exact timing required to purchase something before they call the cops. As I sipped my joe, I glanced to my left and saw a dark figure hunched over what looked to be battle plans depicting troop positions and castle walls. And was that a wakizashi blade at his waist?  Nah, couldn’t be. I grabbed my nitro and headed for the door reminding myself that we were, after all, in Avon, Indiana.

The Samurai on the Bus

   I recently travelled to Japan after a four-year break. I toured the Nagoya and Kyoto regions and although the trip was ostensibly for business, I kept my eyes open for hints of the historical culture that I have long studied and admired. While I took a great many photos of machinery and such, I probably snapped an equal number of gnarled pines and tiled roofs. My fellow travelers would get a strange look on their faces when I stopped once again to take a picture of a meticulously trimmed black pine bough jutting over a weathered, wooden gate to someone's garden.
   In many ways, Japan is a culture built quite literally on wood and I have always been fascinated by its unique uses in Japanese art and architecture. Buddhist temples, Shinto shrines, and feudal-era castles would certainly be in the forefront. (See photo of the wood and stone-built Nagoya Castle above).  In addition, the bo-staff, shoji screens, and geta clogs come to mind as well. My trek to the Kyomizu-dera, one of the most impressive-an oldest-wooden structures in the world, was the highlight of a very eventful trip. Moreover, my first trip back to Kyoto in twenty-five years gave me new insights for stories that will be appearing on this site in the near future.

   Although I was able to seek out the traditional side of Japan, three things from its modern face really caught my attention. These, not in any particular order, was the fascination of young Japanese males with looking feminine, the almost complete lack of trash cans anywhere, and the huge numbers of foreign workers I found in every factory I visited. This may seem like a strange and disconnected list, but the first had me scratching my head and wondering what the attraction was for these young people. The second, caused me great consternation because I was nursing a head cold. And thirdly, while it might be an economic necessity, I found it odd to find factories full of Brazilians and Bolivians.
   As to the first, one might say,
   "Big deal," but I wasn't prepared to see nearly every young man between high school age, and thirty-something wearing makeup, blouses and frilly shirts, or sporting teased-out, orange hair. Conversely, my impression was that it's the women who are now dressing more conservatively, although mini-skirts and high-heels are all the rage. Certainly, none of the chaps in our group complained about that. Gone, however, is the long, beautiful (in my opinion), jet-black hair of Japanese women. Virtually every woman dyes her hair in shades from auburn to kool-aide orange. But enough on hair and on to trash cans, or their lack of.

   Due to my nose running constantly, I was forced to use large amounts of Kleenex. Which normally wouldn't be a problem, except I couldn't find anywhere to dispose of the used tissues in public. Whether I was in a train station, the subway, numerous tourists spots, or the hotel lobby, I could not, quite literally, find a place to throw out trash. What I could find were recycling bins for glass, plastic, and cans often next to the ubiquitous vending machine. I was finally forced to find public toilets where I could empty my pockets. Restrooms, by the way, didn't have trash cans either. Recycling is certainly in full force in Japan. Which is great for conserving resources, but annoying as hell if you are traveling with a cold! Now on to all the foreign workers.

   Japan has long been known as a country with restrictive immigration policies. Not a place that would be easy to find work, with the exception being foreign language teachers and club hostesses. Due to Japan's low birth rate since the 70's, however, and coupled with a lack of interest in manufacturing jobs among young people, Japan has been importing large numbers of workers for the last fifteen years or so. This would have been unthinkable in the go-go manufacturing days of the 80's. In the plants I visited, nearly every worker on the shop floor was either a Brazilian of Japanese ancestry or Bolivian. The factory workers--mostly women--appeared to be very dedicated, hard working individuals who have learned the language and culture and are keeping the Japanese economic engine going by providing the labor that can no longer be sourced locally.

   Now we come to the Samurai on the bus. When my son saw the title of this post, he thought I was describing myself, but alas, I am not comparing myself to a feudal retainer from Japan's Middle Ages. It is in reference to the airport bus driver who took us from the JR station to the Nagoya International Airport.
   From the moment we boarded the bus he reminded me of the Japan I first visited in 1974. Although less than 30 years after WWII, I found Japan to be a modernized country full of dedicated, intelligent people. Far from being a vanquished society, the Japanese had tremendous pride in their traditional arts and international accomplishments ranging from innovative automobiles to superior cameras. Our bus driver reminded me of the Japan of my youth not only because of his outward appearance, which was spit and polish with close-cropped hair, crisp uniform, and white gloves; but it was the professionalism and pride in which he approached his task. He sat up straight and moved with sharp precision. And he spoke with a clear, respectful voice when announcing the next stop, or assisting passengers. This was the norm thirty-five years ago. Much less common now.

   I do not harken for a return to a neo-feudal Japan. Quite to the contrary, modern Japan has given the world amazing, and practical, technological innovations. Moreover, post-modern Japan has become a progressive, peace-loving society.

   What concerns me, however, is that the culture which created the unique arts of Japan is ebbing away. Some years ago I had the great fortune to meet one of the Living National Treasures of Japan. An unpretentious and forthright man with a skill transcending art. The Living National Treasures are a select, yet rapidly declining group of masters in the traditional arts, and a testament to the idea that art is a living entity and not simply a collection of inanimate objects. I wonder if this current generation will produce any National Treasures? It is my ardent wish that they do.

   So once again my travels remind me that Japan is a land of sharp contrasts between old and new, traditional and ultra-modern, of orange-haired furita, and tea masters whose lineage reach back eight-hundred years. I indeed look forward to my next trip back.

Now, if I could only find a damn trash can!

A Vault of Stars

Preface

The night sky I describe below was observed while standing in the parking lot adjacent to my house in Japan. Although a story about a stormy sky doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the Orient, I found it noteworthy because of the unique landscape of the archipelago.  Japan is a mountainous country formed by volcanic action.  While most of the mountains are not all that tall--usually a couple of thousand feet or less (except for the high alpine regions of central Japan, Hokkaido, and of course, Mt. Fuji) the lowlands are about as flat as you can imagine. The reason is that the vast majority of the non-mountainous terrain is covered by rice paddies. And flooded rice paddies are, well, flat. Many hills are terraced as well, creating even more level spaces. With the advent of mechanized farming, however, many of the old, narrow and steeply terraced paddies have been abandoned.

For centuries, Japan was a predominately rice-growing nation. Virtually every inch of available land was cultivated, and it was not uncommon to see neatly planted rows of rice butting up against high rise buildings. Until the end of the 19th Century, feudal lords measured their wealth in Koku of rice, which was thought of as the amount needed to feed one subject for a year (about 278 liters). Therefore, the lord with the most Koku, had the biggest bank account.  Centuries of cultivation produced flatlands between steep mountains ranges which provide wonderful vistas of long narrow valleys and misty hills. Moonlit nights further accentuate a hauntingly beautiful landscape. I find it little wonder that Edo Period artist Hiroshige often drew moonlight scenes in his depictions of everyday Japanese life in the waning days of the feudal era—just don’t ask me why I tied that to large-scale cosmology and the alley behind my boyhood home.

 A Vault of Stars

Late one night I stood in an empty parking lot gazing up at a dark and stormy sky. Not realizing how fast the clouds were moving until the vapor thinned revealing a submerged moon behind waves of gray clouds ripping by like whitewater rapids.

I watched in fascination for several minutes when I noticed a rift in the thick blanket rapidly approach from across the valley.  I followed the tear as it raced across the night sky until it was directly overhead.  I looked up into its abyss and saw a vault of stars so bright and intense that the light seemed to pierce my body and bounce off the asphalt like rain in a deluge. I could not resist the pull. I fell through the black hole slamming into a wall of stars as my being flattened out, infinitely thin, infinitely smooth, in all directions with no point of reference. 

Distant galaxies glittered through my slice of light like house dust through a waning beam of sunlight on a quiet afternoon.

Then I remembered riding my bike down the alley behind my house as a kid and turning the corner into my driveway at full speed; knowing that the garage door would be closed; knowing a hundred thousand times it would be closed. Yet, I choose not to brake in the millisecond before impact and the collapse of the giant star into a singularity.

Regaining consciousness, I looked up into the warm, loving eyes of my mother as she held my battered body in soft, caring arms. 

Obama in Japan or: How I Came to Love Janglish.

I recently traveled to Japan after a two-year hiatus. On my previous trip I toured auto plants in the Nagoya industrial region and took a side trip to Kyoto, the ancient capital and cultural center of Japan. This time the family and I ventured to the town of Misawa, in Aomori Prefecture on the northeastern tip of the main island of Honshu. Our mission: visit son George, stationed at Misawa Air Force Base.

Misawa, a sleepy, provincial town of about forty-three thousand--which a quarter is either U.S. Military, or Japan Air Self-Defense Force (Jass Daff as my son calls them) --appear to be on good terms with base personnel and I didn't see anti-American protest paraphernalia around the base parameter common in Okinawa. A quick read on the history of the base reveled that it had once been a cavalry base for the Imperial Army prior to World War II, then a bomber base, and later a Kamikaze launching point by the Imperial Navy Air Corps. With the Base being such a big part of the landscape, it seemed only natural that local business would go out of their way to cater to the non-Japanese speaking population. A willingness to cater to foreigners is on full display in the form of signs and billboards in English found around town, and what wonderful English it is!

Japanese work very hard at foreign languages and allocate vast resources, both academically and commercially, towards increasing their proficiency. Yet Japanese is sufficiently divergent from English both culturally and linguistically-despite the influx of English words-to be an easy task for the average citizen. One finds few foreigners beyond Tokyo, and although English is compulsory from 9th grade on, most Japanese struggle mightily with spoken and written English in particular. English-speaking foreigners who visit Japan have no doubt seen the well-meaning, yet often humorous results of this disconnect on advertising, on restroom doors, and on tee shirts.

Don't misunderstand me; I give the Japanese copy editors high marks for effort and style, if not always for accuracy. Conversely, these public displays often provide a bit of levity to otherwise pedestrian signage for dry cleaning, coffee bars, pachinko parlors, and the like. Here are a few of my favorites from the trip:
"Jam Friend Club," for the name of a pachinko gambling club, I'm guessing they won't be such great friends to jam with after one is into them for a few grand?
"Sweet Hiem," on the door of a home builder. Maybe they were appealing to local Germans? A bike shop named "Workaholic." Some truth in advertising perhaps? And I dare you to tell me what kind of establishment bills itself as Shidax Please!
But gaffes aside, I believe that a certain charm would be lost if the syntax was perfect. Moreover, the Japanese penchant for detail and politeness would be subverted if the parking lots sign at the dollar a plate sushi bar read, "Management takes no responsibility for accidents or theft." As opposed to the lovely, poetic, abet somewhat confusing: We don't take all responsibility for accident, theft in this parking area. Please watch out for that well.
Or, found on the same sign: Please don't rev up in this parking area! I made a mental note not to get too keyed-up in that parking lot! Nonetheless, the most elegant and insightful janglish, in my opinion, was found somewhat surprisingly on the cover of a pot of self-serve rice in a ramen shop.

Lunch on our first day in Misawa was the best ramen shop in town, or at least the one with the biggest portions, according to my son. Once inside I noticed the following admonishing sign, "Just one bowl of free rice with order." (Just in case you felt you needed more starch with your lunch). It sounded good to me, so as we waited for the super-sized bowl of noodles, I sauntered over to the rice pot. I was greeted by a photo of President Obama, and a Japanese caption with an English translation taped to the lid. The Japanese was pretty straight forward, and I would have translated it as: The rice is free, but please don't pile it on, or something to that effect. I am not, however, the eloquent manifestation of the Japanese speaking Obama, who is quoted with the following stern warning: "Please refrain from rice large vigor." I doubt the real Barrack Obama could have said it any better even if he could speak Japanese, or Japanese-flavored English. Yet what I found most interesting is that the shop owners would choose Obama to be the spokesman for frugality.

I associate President Obama more with government largess and an ever-increasing nanny state rather than any thoughts of austerity, but I suppose the Japanese (and this shop owner in particular) see The President as the proper face of restraint for "sometimes arrogant Americans," plus he is the Commander-in Chief for all the U.S. military personal at Misawa Air Base. I guess it is just a logical step to put his face on a pot of rice at a ramen shop. After all, the Japanese word for America translates as "Rice Country." No one is Japan has ever given me a plausible explanation for that, but I'm sure it made sense to an Edo Period linguist somewhere.

Nonetheless, I truly love traveling in Japan. I can't think of another place where one can go from riding in an ultra-modern, super express train to having tea at a serene, five-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple all within a matter of minutes. So, I look forward to my next trip and the joys of spotting among other things, a restaurant bathroom marked MAN. I wasn't sure if I was The Man, but I used it anyway. A bar named Bluce(?) Or, the ever-popular coffee creamer labeled "Creep."

But sometimes the Japanese hit it dead on. During our trip I noticed the "Baby on Board," car signs so popular in America some years ago now showing up in Japan. And when I saw yet another sign on the back of an SUV I thought, well, there goes another gushing parent. It was only when I got close enough to actually read it did I see the lethal brevity: Samurai on Board.

Cage Rage Revisited

In an earlier post (attached below) I jotted down my thoughts on mixed martial arts from a perspective of sustainability. In other words, will MMA in its present form be around in say one hundred years and have the long-term appeal that the traditional martial arts of Japan such as judo, kendo, kyudo, and Okinawa karate. (Karate is not usually considered one of the historic arts of Japan, although this is due more in part to a geopolitical separation rather than a philosophical difference). Moreover, will future fans wait in anticipation for the next big cage match, or is MMA just the latest manifestation of prize fighting destined to rise in popularity then be forgotten when the next big thing comes along. Without a doubt the traditional martial arts of Japan have undergone a transformation from battlefield origins to modern manifestation. Yet one can still find many schools who practice the art pretty much as it was done in the 19th century. To be sure, there are both pros and cons to traditional versus modern fighting from a sport, or competitive perspective. However, I want to revisit MMA from a perspective of the physical toll to participants in the form of blunt-force trauma to the brain.

Serious injuries to the head and neck are not a new topic for any contact sport. Boxing, in its present form, has been around for well over a hundred years and it is still going strong despite periodic attempts to ban, or limit the sport. Yet that doesn't diminish the long-term health effect to fighters, both pro and amateur. Similarly, the NFL is considering changes to the contact rules for practices and games due to the numerous high-profile cases of post-concussion syndrome among current and former players. Nonetheless, I think that promoters and participants in competitive MMA need to seriously consider the long-term health effects of repeated blows to the head from punches and kicks. In particular, the type of blow that I fear is most damaging is when a fighter strikes at a downward angle repeatedly to the head of a prone opponent. This creates a double impact scenario in which the brain is jarred in one direction, then immediately in the opposite direction as the head rebounds violently off the floor. Concussions, neck trauma, tongue lacerations, broken noses, jaw injuries, and lost teeth are common occurrences.

I recently discussed some of the long-term effects of brain trauma with world renown physician Dr. Christian Guilleminault, head of the Sleep Disorders Clinic at Stanford University. Dr. Guilleminault told me that in addition to complications associated with concussion syndrome, boxers (or others who experience repeated blows to the head) can in some cases experience damage to the hypocretin producing region of the hypothalamus. This condition can lead to narcolepsy-like symptoms. Narcolepsy is a neurological condition often characterized by excessive daytime sleepiness and cataplexy. Currently, the Narcolepsy Research Project at Stanford University is the only place in the U.S. that can test for this disorder through a sample of cerebral spinal fluid. The correlation between hypocritin levels and narcolepsy is still being researched, however I feel the implication are clear: cranio-facial injuries and head trauma can have serious consequences for competitive MMA fighters.

During my competitive days, I was often frustrated by what I felt was the lack of adaptability of traditional karate to modern sport fighting. When I trained in Mainland Japan or Okinawa, I became accustomed to the typical sparring session there: no protective equipment, but no punches allowed to the head. Conversely, I found the point-style tournament sparring common in the US permitted more freedom, but left me unsatisfied as a proponent of traditional karate since many matches became a game of tag rather than contests grounded in actual fighting principles. Karate is unique in that virtually any body part (arm, leg, head, hip, etc.) can be utilized as a weapon against an assailant. In essence, catch-as-catch-can. This, however, makes karate very difficult to adapt in its pure form to the sport arena.

Law enforcement and military forces around the world often engage in very effective self-defense training in order to prepare students for actual street combat, while generally maintaining a high degree of safety. However, in much the same way as traditional karate, this type of training doesn't transfer very effectively to a sport application, or a cage.

Of late I have come to the conclusion that if one is willing to train in MMA with the intention of fighting in a cage match, then one should be free to do so. Nonetheless, the risk of long-term injury is significant and whether that outweighs the thrill of the cage is a decision that each fighter should be free to make. However, I also feel it is important for both fighters and fans to be aware that competitive MMA, a sport which is being touted as the replacement for both traditional martial arts and boxing, has the potential to lead to brain injuries, post-concussion syndrome, and a host of other health problems that we are just beginning to learning about.

Cage Rage

Cage Rage

It seems that every few years a new trend comes along in the world of Martial Arts. Maybe it is just part of the evolution from Asian roots to modern practice. Certainly other sports have evolved in technique, performance, and equipment to produce an improved version; golf and high jumping come to mind.
Is karate any different? The current fascination with mixed martial arts and cage fighting would appear to some to be an improvement over the classical arts. The fighters are generally better conditioned, stronger, and able to strike as well as grapple. The birth of mixed martial arts is in part a product of marketing in Japan where the public lost interest in kickboxing as a money sport, and the popularity of formerly obscure arts such as Gracie Jujitsu from Brazil.
So are the mixed martial arts an improvement over traditional karate, or other classical fighting arts? In my opinion, mixed martial arts have some effective grapping techniques and conditioning drills, but as a complete art to be pursued throughout one’s life, I believe they are sorely lacking. First and foremost, karate is a “path or way” that encompasses both physical training and spiritual development. This is evident in the use of the Japanese terms karate do, or judo, i.e., way of karate, and the gentle way, as opposed to jujitsu, or kenjutsu, i.e., grappling, and swordplay, respectively. The difference in terms represents a transformation in how the fighting arts of ancient Japan were thought of originally as skills then later as complete arts, worthy of being considered on a par with other classical arts such as tea ceremony, calligraphy, sword making, etc.
When I see a cage match on TV, my impression is that there is much more wrestling that striking, and that the fighters seem to have more grappling skills than striking ability. However, the strikes that do connect are often very forceful blows to vital organs or joints. I am left wondering how much damage these fighters absorb despite the rigorous training. Moreover, professional fighters endure this punishment many times during their career, and amateurs are often injured due to lack of training or skills.

Even in the ancient swordsmanship schools of Japan, tests of skill were held between rival schools or competing students, using a wooden bokuto rather than a steel blade. Nevertheless, the chance of injury was real, so great emphasis was placed on formality, and on halting the contest once the skill difference was evident. As such, matches were rarely held. Yet outside of practice bouts in the dojo, a proponent might only engage in a small number of actual matches, or shiai due to the risks. Instead, a swordsman would reflect on these rich, but rare experiences to hone his skill knowing that in a real match a single stroke could kill. The majority of practice was kata and meditation, with the ultimate goal of unifying body and mind.
It may be that one day mixed martial arts will become a complete art, with forms and a linage of masters and students. However, it may only be a passing fad that will lose appeal once something new comes along.
The classical martial arts have endured for hundreds of years because of the very fact that they are complete arts that promote respect for others, well-being, and spiritual development, yet retain the capability to “kill with a single stroke.”

- jim noah

Cow Soap

First of all, let me put to rest your fears that this is a story about some new kind of bovine hygiene product. Quite to the contrary, it is definitely about people soap, or more specifically-Japanese soap. For those of you who have visited Japan for any length of time, I think you will recognize, or more likely, recall the fragrance of the ubiquitous Kao Brand White Soap. Kao Brand has an aroma unlike any soap I have found in the U.S. Not particularly strong, or pungent, it has a unique smell that to me epitomizes taking a bath in Japan. Which, by the way, is a really big thing there. While most Americans quickly shower in the morning then rush to work, the Japanese love to leisurely soak in a neck-deep tub. Many Japanese also visit public baths, where one can enjoy a spa-like experience for around two bucks. There will, however, be lots of naked people around enjoying the bath as well. But not to worry, public baths are pool-sized, though only about two to three feet deep, and most keep their eyes to themselves. In addition to the home and public baths, hot springs abound in volcanic Japan. Many of the hot springs have lodging as well, however most simply pay for a dip in the therapeutic waters. Now before I diverge further, let me get back to the cow, or more accurately, Kao Brand Soap. As far as I know, Kao Brand has been one of the most popular brands of soap in Japan for many years. Wherever I lived, or traveled, I would find a bar of it next to a sink or bath, and we had it in our home in Akita as well. To me, it is as much a part of the background aroma of Japan as ramen shops or temple incenses. It has a fresh, mild scent that reminds me of the clean, well-scrubbed land that, in my opinion, symbolizes Japan. The reason I call it cow soap is that the old packaging had a small picture of a cow on it. Not quite sure why, but since many English words are misspelled in Japan, I naturally assumed that Kao meant cow. When I learned a bit more Japanese I understood that kao can also means one’s face. Facial soap? Now that made sense. That is until a few weeks ago when I stopped in at a large Japanese grocery store in Chicago. I swung buy to purchase some snacks for a road trip when I walked by the cosmetics aisle and saw my beloved Kao Soap. I took a closer look (with my glasses on) and noticed that in the upper right corner of the wrapper were two Japanese characters 花王 (kao) which translate as flower king, but in reality is the corporate name of the manufacturer, The Kao Corporation. Nothing to do with cows or faces. Damn, another of my assumptions about Japan shot to pieces. Personally, I like the cow analogy better, so perhaps I could get someone at corporate to rethink the brand ID? The Cow is currently in its place of honor-the soap dish of my bath. As it waits to set free long hidden memories of the Orient.

Obaa-chan

Obaa-chan, your childless carriage pushed with a back bowed by a meager war diet and the weight of a post-industrial society that has moved from feudal to digital in your lifetime. Where have your children gone?
Was it a .50 caliber round through the chest on Mindanao? His youthful, pensive face staring back through the smoke of your prayer incense. Or perhaps it was a Bullet-Train out of town when she could no longer stand the smell of the farm?
Where have your children gone?
Maybe off to the Juku, or the sex club? Your knowing, patient hands still cooking meals for a generation no longer interested in waving the Rising Sun, dusting off pictures of the Emperor, or toasting victories in Canton.
Obaa-chan, I know you were once young, but do your grandchildren know that you had hair as shining and skin as soft and fair as any who now peddle their flesh in Ginza on a cell phone? Do they know that the takuwan pickles in their bento are from a recipe you learned as a girl at a time when you weren't allowed to speak in the presence of your father without permission?
Do they know you are day-care to a generation, and rain-swept, roadside grime and mud labor to a nation?
I know, but I could never have endured as you have through wars, famine, and now isolation. I know, because you once showed me your picture as a young girl in monpei, bidding your brother farewell at the train station. So handsome in his uniform; you bowed stoically as he headed to his grave in the Pacific.

But I will not bother you now for a story. You are too busy knocking the snow off rows of long, white radishes drying in the winter sun and setting up an offering of rice for your brother's long awaited return.

Author's note:
When I first visited Japan almost 35 years ago, I often saw Obaa-chans (grandmothers) in the Japanese countryside with terribly bowed backs. Purportedly caused by a calcium poor war diet and long hours stooped over in the rice fields. They would often be pushing a cart that looked something like a cross between a baby carriage and a shopping cart. It struck me that this nation would truly have been lost after the war had it not been for these stout, resolute women.

To the Green Sea

Author's note:
I have heard a few comments of late that my recent posts are not very zen-like, or filled with martial arts philosophy. I would agree. However, I find most zen writing rather boring. If you want reflective meditations on peace and harmony, don't go to Japan for zen training. If you want to know what one day was like; read below. I'm not saying this is the only way, I'm just telling you how it was.
'nuff said?

To the Green Sea - a book excerpt

It was one of the coldest and snowiest winters that anyone could remember. Even the old monks who came by on occasion remarked that it reminded them of the days after the war when the monasteries were one of the only places with food and young men became monks out of necessity. Those winters were cold they said. Blankets were scarce and discipline severe. I knew they were right. The worn wooden shoe box with the hand written names above it counted seventy-five in number. Almost three times the number of training monks on hand now.

It was my second winter at the zen training temple in the quiet port town of Onishi. January was the month of kangyo, the winter training. Regardless of weather we would march ten to fifteen kilometers through the nearby villages each day to collect alms in support of the temple. Normally we would take the same course in and around the town, but once each season we would walk through town, cross the river, and visit the small fishing village of Nishimura. No one minded going out there in summer, but the winter trip was hard, and we would be exposed to a piercing, biting wind most of the way.

On the morning of the march into Nishimura, I woke to the coldest day so far that winter. I slept next to an old, ill-fitting window and the wind in the night had blown the snow in through the cracks to form small drifts on the top of my blankets and across the floor. Yet I'd learned that a few degrees below freezing were better than above for marching because the slush on the road would freeze hard keeping our feet dry a bit longer. Feet and hands suffered the worse.

Meditation started at five, chanting at six, and rice at seven. At seven forty-five the roll call began with a monk beating a steel plate which hung in the entrance to the temple. We rushed to get ready. The steel plate sounding out in a jagged, steadily rising clang as we assembled on the hardened dirt floor of the Entry Hall. The head monk shouted,
"Everyone going out today must stand at attention to receive the day's instruction and recite the chant." Our nickname for him was The Apache. He would not have looked out of place in a maximum security facility.
It was cold, yet it seemed that the tighter I bound my garments the warmer I felt. One man would pull the chin straps on his kasa hat so tight there would be marks on his face for hours. We all had our little ways of keeping warm, but it wouldn't matter for an hour into the march warmth was something months away in a dream. In the Entry Hall we stood at sharp attention, heads up, looking strong. It was easy to look tough now, our feet were dry. The head monk spun towards us and barked,
"Move."

We marched into Nishimura to a bitter cold wind rolling off the ocean like a giant wave, dashing against the corrugated metal houses and blowing the cold even deeper into our bones. At the moment I thought,
This is what it really is to be cold. Who cared if I couldn't feel anything from the knees down? Someone had to break a trail in the two-foot deep new snow. It was so cold I became euphoric. Without gloves in the cold we lost control of the muscles in our hands. It would start slowly with the little finger then move on to the next until the whole hand curled into a weak fist. It was a daily ritual watching men try to straighten out a frozen hand with the still good fingers from the other.

Each year important villagers and inn keepers in Nishimura held a formal meal for the monks to commemorate our visit. After our morning march through the village we stopped at the appointed place. A spacious inn with very gracious people. But there would be a price to pay for indulgence in food and wine. The problem was that our frozen feet would swell from the Inn's heat and when it came time for the return march, we could no longer get our now wet, stiff tabi socks on without great and painful effort. Some walked the 5 km back to the temple barefoot.

Dinner that night was instant Ramen-if anyone wanted it. Most recovered in their rooms huddling around small hibachi coals. Some of us sat quietly in the Meditation Hall. I would stuff a thin blanket under my robe to stay warm. Body heat would keep me reasonably comfortable in the still air-and my feet were dry. Not a bad day after all.

© All rights reserved James Noah 2008